THE    GREAT  VALLEY 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK  '    BOSTON   •    CHICAGO  •    DALLAS 
ATLANTA  •    SAN   FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LIMITED 

LONDON  •    BOMBAY  •    CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  LTD. 

TORONTO 


THE    GREAT  VALLEY 


By 
EDGAR  LEE  MASTERS 

AUTHOR    OF    "  SPOON    RIVER    ANTHOLOGY  " 
"  SONGS   AND    SATIRES,"    ETC. 


THE   MACMILLAN    COMPANY 
1916 

All  rights  reserved 


COPYRIGHT,  1916, 
BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.    Published  November,  1916. 
Reprinted  November,  1916. 


Nortooob 

J.  8.  Gushing  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 
Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


TO   THE    MEMORY 
OF 

SQUIRE   DAVIS   AND   LUCINDA  MASTERS 

WHO,    CLOSE    TO   NATURE,    ONE    IN    DEEP    RELIGIOUS    FAITH,   THE    OTHER 

IN    PANTHEISTIC    RAPTURE   AND    HEROISM,   LIVED    NEARLY  A 

HUNDRED    YEARS    IN   THIS    LAND    OF    ILLINOIS 

I    INSCRIBE 

THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

IN  ADMIRATION  OF  THEIR  GREAT  STRENGTH,  MASTERY 

OF  LIFE,  HOPEFULNESS,  CLEAR  AND 

BEAUTIFUL  DEMOCRACY 

EDGAR  LEE  MASTERS 


355884 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

FORT  DEARBORN 1 

CAPT.  JOHN  WHISTLER 5 

EMILY  BROSSEAU  :  IN  CHURCH 12 

THE  OUIJA  BOARD 19 

HANGING  THE  PICTURE 21 

LINCOLN  AND  DOUGLAS  DEBATES 26 

AUTOCHTHON 33 

GRANT  AND  LOGAN  AND  OUR  TEARS 43 

THE  MUNICIPAL  PIER 49 

GOBINEAU  TO  TREE 53 

OLD  PIERY 60 

THE  TYPICAL  AMERICAN  ? 68 

COME,  REPUBLIC 72 

PAST  AND  PRESENT 76 

ROBERT  G.  INGERSOLL 77 

AT  HAVANA 78 

THE  MOURNER'S  BENCH 80 

THE  BAY  WINDOW 83 

MAN  OF  OUR  STREET 90 

ACHILLES  DEATHERIDGE 93 

SLIP  SHOE  LOVEY 95 

[vii] 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  ARCHANGELS 98 

SONG  OF  CHANGE 101 

MEMORABILIA 102 

To  A  SPIROCH^ETA 104 

CATO  BRADEN 106 

WINSTON  PRAIRIE 120 

WILL  BOYDEN  LECTURES 125 

THE  DESPLAINES  FOREST 129 

THE  GARDEN 131 

THE  TAVERN 134 

O  SAEPE  MECUM 138 

MALACHY  BEGAN 141 

MY  DOG  PONTO 144 

THE  GOSPEL  OF  MARK 147 

MARSYAS 154 

WORLDS  BACK  OF  WORLDS 160 

THE  PRINCESS'  SONG 164 

THE  FURIES 166 

APOLLO  AT  PHER^E 168 

STEAM  SHOVEL  CUT 173 

THE  HOUSES 178 

THE  CHURCH  AND  THE  HOTEL 185 

SUSIE 188 

HAVING  His  WAY 190 

THE  ASP .198 

THE  FAMILY 206 

THE  SUBWAY 207 

THE  RADICAL'S  MESSAGE 211 

BOMBYX 216 

THE  APOLOGY  OF  DEMETRIUS 218 

f  viii  1 


CONTENTS 

PACK 

A  PLAY  IN  FOUR  ACTS 224 

THEODORE  DREISER 228 

JOHN  COWPER  POWYS 231 

NEW  YEAR'S  DAY 234 

PLAYING  BLIND 240 

I  SHALL  NEVER  SEE  You  AGAIN 241 

ELIZABETH  TO  MONSIEUR  D 244 

MONSIEUR  D TO  THE  PSYCHOANALYST    ....  249 

THE  LAST  CONFESSION 261 

IN  THE  LOGGIA 268 

BE  WITH  ME  THROUGH  THE  SPRING 272 

DESOLATE  SCYTHIA 273 

THE  SEARCH  274 


IX 


THE    GREAT    VALLEY 

i 

FORT  DEARBORN 

Here  the  old  Fort  stood 

When  the  river  bent  southward. 

Now  because  the  world  pours  itself  into  Chicago 

The  Lake  runs  into  the  river 

Past  docks  and  switch-yards, 

And  under  bridges  of  iron. 

Sand  dunes  stretched  along  the  lake  for  miles. 

There  was  a  great  forest  in  the  Loop. 

Now  Michigan  Avenue  lies 

Between  miles  of  lights, 

And  the  Rialto  blazes 

Where  the  wolf  howled. 

In  the  loneliness  of  the  log-cabin, 

Across  the  river, 

The  fur-trader  played  his  fiddle 

When  the  snow  lay 

About  the  camp  of  the  Pottawatomies 

In  the  great  forest. 

Now  to  the  music  of  the  Kangaroo  Hop, 

And  Ragging  the  Scale, 

B  [I] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

And  La  Seduccion, 

The  boys  and  girls  are  dancing 

In  a  cafe  near  Lake  Street. 

The  world  is  theirs  now. 

There  is  neither  a  past  nor  a  to-morrow7 

Save  of  dancing. 

Nor  do  they  know  that  behind  them 

In  the  seed  not  yet  sown 

There  are  eyes  which  will  open  upon  Chicago, 

And  feet  which  will  blossom  for  the  dance, 

And  hands  which  will  reach  up 

And  push  them  into  the  silence 

Of  the  old  fiddler. 

They  threw  a  flag 

Over  the  coffin  of  Lieutenant  Farnum 

And  buried  him  back  of  the  Fort 

In  ground  where  now 

The  spice  mills  stand. 

And  his  little  squaw  with  a  baby 

Sat  on  the  porch  grieving 

While  the  band  played. 

Then  hands  pushing  the  world 

Buried  a  million  soldiers  and  afterward 

Pale  multitudes  swept  through  the  Court-house 

To  gaze  for  the  last  time 

Upon  the  shrunken  face  of  Lincoln. 


FORT  DEARBORN 

And  the  fort  at  thirty-fifth  street  vanished. 

And  where  the  Little  Giant  lived 

They  made  a  park 

And  put  his  statue 

Upon  a  column  of  marble. 

Now  the  glare  of  the  steel  mills  at  South  Chicago 

Lights  the  bronze  brow  of  Douglas. 

It  is  his  great  sorrow 

Haunting  the  Lake  at  mid-night. 

When  the  South  was  beaten 

They  were  playing 

John  Brown's  body  lies  mouldering  in  the  Grave, 

And  Babylon  is  Fallen  and  Wake  Nicodemus. 

Now  the  boys  and  girls  are  dancing 

To  the  Merry  Whirl  and  Hello  Frisco 

Where  they  waltzed  in  crinoline 

When  the  Union  was  saved. 

There  was  the  Marble  Terrace 

Glory  of  the  seventies  ! 

They  wrecked  it, 

And  brought  colors  and  figures 

From  later  Athens  and  Pompeii 

And  put  them  on  walls. 

And  beneath  panels  of  red  and  gold, 

And  shimmering  tesserae, 

And  tragic  masks  and  comic  masks, 

[3] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

And  wreaths  and  bucrania, 

Upon  mosaic  floors 

Red  lipped  women  are  dancing 

With  dark  men. 

Some  sit  at  tables  drinking  and  watching, 

Amorous  in  an  air  of  French  perfumes. 

Like  ships  at  mid-night 

The  kingdoms  of  the  world 

Know  not  whither  they  go  nor  to  what  port. 

Nor  do  you,  embryo  hands, 

In  the  seed  not  yet  sown 

Know  of  the  wars  to  come. 

They  may  fill  the  sky  with  armored  dragons 

And  the  waters  with  iron  monsters ; 

They  may  build  arsenals 

Where  now  upon  marble  floors 

The  boys  and  girls 

Are  dancing  the  Alabama  Jubilee, 

The  processional  of  time  is  a  falling  stream 

Through  which  you  thrust  your  hand. 

And  between  the  dancers  and  the  silence  forever 

There  shall  be  the  livers 

Gazing  upon  the  torches  they  have  lighted, 

And  watching  their  own  which  are  failing, 

And  crying  for  oil, 

And  finding  it  not ! 

[4] 


CAPTAIN  JOHN  WHISTLER 

II 
CAPTAIN  JOHN  WHISTLER 

(Captain  John  Whistler  built  Fort  Dearborn  in  1803. 
His  son,  George  Washington,  who  was  an  engineer 
and  built  a  railroad  in  Russia  for  the  Czar  in  1842, 
was  the  father  of  the  artist,  James  Abbott  McNeill 
Whistler.} 

Throw  logs  upon  the  fire !     Relieve  the  guard 
At  the  main  gate  and  wicket  gate !     Lieutenant 
Send  two  men  'round  the  palisades,  perhaps 
They'll  find  some  thirsty  Indians  loitering 
Who  may  think  there  is  whiskey  to  be  had 
After  the  wedding.     Get  my  sealing  wax  ! 
Now  let  me  see  "November,  eighteen  four: 
Dear  Jacob  :   On  this  afternoon  my  daughter 
Was  married  to  James  Abbott,  it's  the  first 
Wedding  of  white  people  in  Chicago  — 
That's  what  we  call  Fort  Dearborn  now  and  then. 
They  left  at  once  on  horseback  for  Detroit." 
The  "Tracy"  will  sail  in  to-morrow  likely. 
"To  Jacob  Kingsbury" —  that's  well  addressed. 
Don't  fail  to  give  this  letter  to  the  captain, 
That  it  may  reach  Detroit  ere  they  do. 
I  wonder  how  James  Abbott  and  my  Sarah 
Will  fare  three  hundred  miles  of  sand  and  marsh, 

[si 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

And  tangled  forest  in  this  hard  November  ? 

More  logs  upon  the  fire  !     The  mist  comes  down ! 

The  lake  roars  like  a  wind,  and  not  a  star 

Lights  up  the  blackness.     They  have  almost  reached 

The  Calumet  by  now.     Good  luck  James  Abbott ! 

I'm  glad  my  Sarah  wed  so  brave  a  man, 

And  one  so  strong  of  arm. 

It's  eighteen  four, 

It's  almost  eighteen  five.     It's  twenty  years 
Since  I  was  captured  when  Burgoyne  was  whipped 
At  Saratoga.     Why,  it's  almost  twenty 
Since  I  became  an  American  soldier.     Now 
Here  am  I  builder  of  this  frontier  fort, 
And  its  commander  !     Aged  now  forty-nine. 
But  in  my  time  a  British  soldier  first, 
Now  an  American ;   first  resident 
Of  Ireland,  then  England,  Maryland, 
Now  living  here.     I  see  the  wild  geese  fly 
To  distant  shores  from  distant  shores  and  wonder 
How  they  endure  such  strangeness.     But  what's  that 
To  man's  adventures,  change  of  home,  what's  that 
To  my  unsettled  life  ?     Why  there's  La  Salle : 
They  say  La  Salle  in  sixteen  seventy-one 
Was  here,  and  now  it's  almost  eighteen  five. 
And  what's  your  wild  geese  to  La  Salle !     He's  born 
At  Rouen,  sails  the  seas,  and  travels  over 
Some  several  thousand  miles  through  Canada. 

[6] 


CAPTAIN  JOHN  WHISTLER 

Is  here  exploring  portages  and  rivers. 

Ends  up  at  last  down  by  the  Rio  Grande, 

And  dies  almost  alone  half  way  around 

The  world  from  where  he  started.     There's  a  man ! 

May  some  one  say  of  me :  There  was  a  man !  .  .  . 

I'm  lonely  without  Sarah,  without  James. 

Tom  bring  my  pipe  and  that  tobacco  bag. 

Here  place  my  note  to  Jacob  Kingsbury 

There  on  the  shelf  —  remember,  to  the  captain 

When  the  "Tracy"  comes.     Draw,  boys,  up  to  the  fire 

I'll  tell  you  what  a  wondrous  dream  I  had, 

And  woke  with  on  my  Sarah's  wedding  day.  .  .  . 

I  had  an  uncle  back  in  Ireland 

Who  failed  at  everything  except  his  Latin. 

He  could  spout  Virgil  till  your  head  would  ache. 

And  when  I  was  a  boy  he  used  to  roll 

The  Latin  out,  translating  as  he  went : 

The  ghost  of  Hector  comes  before  ^Eneas, 

And  warns  him  to  leave  Troy.     His  mother  Venus 

Tells  him  to  settle  in  another  land ! 

The  Delphic  oracle  misunderstood, 

^Eneas  goes  to  Crete.     He  finds  at  last 

His  ships  are  fired  by  the  Trojan  women, 

Great  conflagration  !     Down  he  goes  to  hell, 

And  then  the  Sibyl  shows  him  what's  to  be : 

What  race  of  heroes  shall  descend  from  him, 

[7] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

And  how  a  city's  walls  he  shall  up-build 
In  founding  Rome.  .  .  . 

So  last  night  in  my  dream 
This  uncle  came  to  me  and  said  to  me : 
"'Aeneas'  Whistler  you  shall  found  a  city. 
You've  built  Fort  Dearborn,  that  is  the  beginning. 
Imperial  Rome  could  be  put  in  a  corner 
Of  this,  the  city  which  you'll  found.     Fear  not 
The  wooden  horse,  but  have  a  care  for  cows : 
I  see  ships  burning  on  your  muddy  Tiber, 
And  toppling  walls."     I  dreamed  I  felt  the  heat. 
But  then  a  voice  said  "Where's  your  little  boy 
George  Washington  ?"  —  come  sit  on  father's  knee, 
And  hear  about  my  dream  —  there  little  boy  ! 
Well,  as  I  said,  I  felt  the  heat  and  then 
I  felt  the  crudest  cold  and  then  the  voice : 
"You  cannot  come  to  Russia  with  your  boy, 
He'll  make  his  way."     I  woke  up  with  these  words, 
And  found  the  covers  off  and  I  was  cold. 
And  then  no  sooner  did  I  fall  asleep 
Than  this  old  uncle  re-appeared  and  said : 
"A  race  of  heroes  shall  descend  from  you, 
Here  shall  a  city  stand  greater  than  Rome." 
With  that  he  seemed  to  alter  to  a  witch, 
A  woman's  form,  the  voice  of  him  changed  too, 
And  said  :   "I'm  Mother  Shipton,  Captain  Whistler. 
"Men  through  the  mountains  then  shall  ride, 

[8] 


CAPTAIN  JOHN  WHISTLER 

"Nor  horse  nor  ass  be  by  their  side" 

Think,  gentlemen,  what  it  would  be  to  ride 

In  carriages  propelled  by  steam !     And  then 

This  dream  became  a  wonder  in  a  wonder 

Of  populous  streets,  of  flying  things,  of  spires 

Of  driven  mist  that  looked  like  fiddle  strings 

From  tree  to  tree.     Of  smoke-stacks  over-topping 

The  tallest  pine ;   of  bridges  built  of  levers, 

And  such  a  haze  of  smoke,  and  cloud  like  shapes 

Passing  along  like  etchings  one  by  one : 

Cathedrals,  masts  as  thick  as  hazel  thickets, 

And  buildings  great  as  hills,  and  miles  of  lights. 

Till  by  some  miracle  the  sun  had  moved, 

And  rose  not  in  the  east  but  in  the  south. 

And  shone  along  the  shore  line  of  the  Lake, 

As  he  shines  o'er  the  Lake  when  he  arises, 

And  makes  an  avenue  of  gold,  no  less 

This  yellow  sand  took  glory  of  his  light. 

And  where  he  shone  it  seemed  an  avenue, 

And  over  it,  where  now  the  dunes  stretch  south, 

Along  the  level  shore  of  sand,  there  stood 

These  giant  masses,  etchings  as  it  were ! 

And  Mother  Shipton  said  :    "This  is  your  city. 

"A  race  of  heroes  shall  descend  from  you; 

"Your  son  George  Washington  shall  do  great  deeds. 

"And  if  he  had  a  son  what  would  you  name  him  ?" 

Well,  as  I  went  to  sleep  with  thoughts  of  Sarah 

And  praises  for  James  Abbott,  it  was  natural 

[9] 


THE   GREAT  VALLEY 

That  I  should  say  "I'd  name  him  after  James." 
"Well   done"    said   Mother   Shipton    and    then   van 
ished.  .  .  . 

I  woke  to  find  the  sun-light  in  my  room, 
And  from  my  barracks  window  saw  the  Lake 
Stirred  up  to  waves  slate-colored  by  the  wind ; 
Some  Indians  loitering  about  the  fort. 
They  knew  this  was  James  Abbott's  wedding  day, 
And  Sarah's  day  of  leaving. 

Soldiers !     Comrades ! 

What  is  most  real,  our  waking  hours,  our  dreams  ? 
Where  was  I  in  this  sleep  ?     What  are  our  dreams 
But  lands  which  lie  below  our  hour's  horizon, 
Yet  still  are  seen  in  a  reflecting  sky, 
And  which  through  earth  and  heaven  draw  us  on  ? 
Look  at  me  now  !     Consider  of  yourselves  : 
Housed,  fed,  yet  lonely,  in  this  futile  task 
By  this  great  water,  in  this  waste  of  grass, 
Close  to  this  patch  of  forest,  on  this  river 
Where  wolves  howl,  and  the  Indian  waits  his  chance  — 
Consider  of  your  misery,  your  sense 
Of  worthless  living,  living  to  no  end  : 
I  tell  you  no  man  lives  but  to  some  end. 
He  may  live  only  to  increase  the  mass 
Wherewith  Fate  is  borne-down,  or  just  to  swell 
The  needed  multitude  when  the  hero  passes, 
To  give  the  hero  heart !     But  every  man 

[10] 


CAPTAIN  JOHN  WHISTLER 

Walks,  though  in  blindness,  to  some  destiny 
Of  human  growth,  who  only  helps  to  fill, 
And  helps  that  way  alone,  the  empty  Fate 
That  waits  for  lives  to  give  it  Life. 

And  look 

Here  are  we  housed  and  fed,  here  is  a  fire 
And  here  a  bed.     A  hundred  years  ago 
Marquette,  La  Salle,  scarce  housed  and  poorly  fed 
Gave  health  and  life  itself  to  find  the  way 
Through  icy  marshes,  treacherous  swamps  and  forests 
For  this  Fort  Dearborn,  where  to-night  we  sit 
Warming  ourselves  against  a  roaring  hearth. 
And  what's  our  part  ?     It  is  not  less  than  theirs. 
And  what's  the  part  of  those  to  come  ?     Not  less 
Than  ours  has  been  !     And  what's  the  life  of  man  ? 
To  live  up  to  the  God  in  him,  to  obey 
The  Voice  which  says  :  You  shall  not  live  and  rest. 
Nor  sleep,  nor  mad  delight  nor  senses  fed, 
Nor  memory  dulled,  nor  tortured  hearing  stopped 
To  drown  my  Voice  shall  leave  you  to  forget 
Life's  impulse  at  the  heart  of  Life,  to  strive 
For  men  to  be,  for  cities,  nobler  states 
Moving  foreshadowed  in  your  dreams  at  night, 
And  realized  some  hundred  years  to  come. 
When  this  Fort  Dearborn,  you  and  all  of  you, 
And  I  who  sit  with  pipe  and  son  on  knee, 
Regretting  a  dear  daughter,  who  this  hour 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

Is  somewhere  in  the  darkness  (like  our  souls 
Which  move  in  darkness,  listening  to  the  beat 
Of  our  mysterious  hearts,  or  with  closed  eyes 
Sensing  a  central  Purpose)  shall  be  dust  — 
Our  triumphs,  sorrows,  even  our  names  forgotten. 
And  all  we  knew  lost  in  the  wreck  and  waste 
And  change  of  things.     And  even  what  we  did 
For  cities,  nobler  states,  and  greater  men 
Forgotten  too.     It  matters  not.     We  work 
For  cities,  nobler  states  and  greater  men, 
Or  else  we  die  in  Life  which  is  the  death 
Which  soldiers  must  not  die ! 

Ill 
EMILY  BROSSEAU:    IN   CHURCH 

Domine,  Jesu  Ckriste,  Rex  gloriae,  libera  animas  omnium 
fidelium  defunctorum  de  poenis  inferni,  et  de  pro- 
{undo  lacu. 

Leave  me  now  and  I  will  watch  here  through  the  night, 

And  I'll  put  in  new  candles,  if  these  fail. 

I'll  sit  here  as  I  am,  where  I  can  see 

His  brow,  his  nose's  tip  and  thin  white  hair, 

And  just  beyond  his  brow,  above  the  altar, 

The  red  gash  in  the  side  of  Jesus  like 

A  candle's  flame  when  burning  to  the  socket. 

Go  all  of  you,  and  leave  me.     I  don't  care 


EMILY  BROSSEAU:    IN  CHURCH 

How  cold  the  church  grows.     Michael  Angelo 
Went  to  a  garret,  which  was  cold,  and  stripped 
His  feet,  and  painted  till  the  chill  of  death 
Took  hold  of  him,  a  man  just  eighty-seven. 
And  I  am  ninety,  what's  the  odds  ?  —  go  now  .  .  . 

Now  Jean  we  are  alone  !     Your  very  stillness 

Is  like  intenser  life,  as  in  your  brow 

Your  soul  was  crystallized  and  made  more  strong, 

And  nearer  to  me.     You  are  here,  I  feel  you. 

I  close  my  eyes  and  feel  you,  you  are  here. 

Therefore  a  little  talk  before  the  dawn, 

Which  will  come  soon.     Dawn  always  comes  too  soon 

In  times  like  this.     It  waits  too  long  in  times 

Of  absence,  and  you  will  be  absent  soon.  .  .  . 

I  want  to  talk  about  my  happiness, 

My  happy  life,  the  part  you  played  in  it. 

There  never  was  a  day  you  did  not  kiss  me 

Through  nearly  seventy  years  of  married  life. 

I  had  two  hours  of  heaven  in  my  life. 

The  first  one  was  the  dance  where  first  we  met. 

The  other  when  last  fall  they  brought  me  roses, 

Those  ninety  roses  for  my  birth-day,  when 

They  had  me  tell  them  of  the  first  Chicago 

I  saw  when  just  a  child,  about  the  Fort ; 

The  cabins  where  the  traders  lived,  who  worked, 

And  made  the  fortune  of  John  Jacob  Astor. 

[13] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

Poor  Jean  !     It's  scarce  a  week  since  you  were  struck. 

You  sat  down  in  your  chair,  'twas  after  dinner, 

Then  suddenly  I  saw  your  head  fall  forward. 

You  could  not  speak  when  I  went  over  to  you. 

But  afterwards  when  you  were  on  the  bed 

I  leaned  above  you  and  you  took  the  ribbon, 

That  hung  down  from  my  cap  and  pressed  it  trembling 

Against  your  lips.     What  triumph  in  your  death ! 

Your  death  was  like  a  mass,  mysterious,  rich 

Like  Latin  which  the  priests  sing  and  the  choir  — 

May  angels  take  you  and  with  Lazarus, 

Once  poor,  receive  you  to  eternal  rest.  .  .  . 

Two  hours  of  heaven  in  my  life  that's  true ! 

And  years  between  that  made  life  more  than  good. 

My  first  sight  of  Chicago  stands  for  all 

My  life  became  for  you  and  all  I've  lived. 

The  year  is  1829,  you  know  of  course. 

I've  told  you  of  the  trip  in  Prairie  schooners 

From  Ft.  Detroit  round  the  lake,  we  camped 

Along  the  way,  the  last  time  near  the  place 

Where  Gary  and  the  steel  mills  are  to-day. 

And  the  next  morning  what  a  sky !  as  blue 

As  a  jay's  wing,  with  little  rifts  of  snow 

Along  the  hollows  of  the  yellow  dunes, 

And  some  ice  in  the  lake,  which  lapped  a  little, 

And  purplish  colors  far  off  in  the  north. 

So  round  these  more  than  twenty  miles  we  drove 

That  April  day.     And  when  we  came  as  far 

[HI 


EMILY   BROSSEAU:    IN  CHURCH 

As  thirty-ninth  or  thirty-first  perhaps  — 
Just  sand  hills  then  —  I  never  can  forget  it  — 
What  should  I  see  ?     Fort  Dearborn  dazzling  bright, 
All  newly  white-washed  right  against  that  sky, 
And  the  log  cabins  round  it,  far  away 
The  rims  of  forests,  and  between  a  prairie 
With  wild  flowers  in  the  grasses  red  and  blue  — 
Such  wild  flowers  and  such  grasses,  such  a  sky, 
Such  oceans  of  sweet  air,  in  which  were  rising 
Straight  up  from  Indian  wigwams  spires  of  smoke, 
About  where  now  the  Public  Library  stands 
On  Randolph  Street.     And  as  we  neared  the  place 
There  was  the  flag,  a  streaming  red  and  white 
Upon  a  pole  within  the  Fort's  inclosure. 
I  cried  for  happiness  though  just  a  child, 
And  cry  now  thinking.  .  .  . 

I  must  set  this  candle 

To  see  your  pale  brow  better  !     What's  the  hour  ? 
The  night  is  passing,  and  I  have  so  much 
To  say  to  you  before  the  dawn.  .  .  . 

Well,  then 

The  first  hour  that  I  call  an  hour  of  heaven : 
Who  was  that  man  that  built  the  first  hotel  ?  — 
It  stood  across  the  river  from  the  Fort  — 
No  matter.     But  before  that  I  had  heard 
Nothing  beside  a  fiddle,  living  here 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

Amid  the  traders  eleven  years  or  so. 

And  this  man  for  his  hotel's  opening 

Had  brought  an  orchestra  from  somewhere.     Think 

Bass  viols,  violins,  and  horns  and  flutes. 

I'm  dressed  up  like  a  princess  for  those  days. 

I'm  sixteen  years  of  age  and  pass  the  door, 

Enter  the  ball-room  where  such  candle-light 

As  I  had  never  seen  shone  on  me,  they 

Bored  sockets  in  suspended  wheels  of  wood 

And  hung  them  from  the  ceiling,  chandeliers ! 

And  at  that  moment  all  the  orchestra 

Broke  into  music,  yes,  it  was  a  waltz ! 

And  in  that  moment  —  what  a  moment-full ! 

This  hotel  man  presented  you  and  said 

You  were  my  partner  for  the  evening.     Jean 

I  call  this  heaven,  for  its  youth  and  love ! 

I'm  sixteen  and  you're  twenty  and  I  love  you. 

I  slip  my  arm  through  yours  for  you  to  lead  me, 

You  are  so  strong,  so  ruddy,  kind  and  brave. 

I  want  you  for  a  husband,  for  a  friend, 

A  guide,  a  solace,  father  to  the  child 

That  I  can  bear.     Oh  Jean  how  can  I  talk  so 

In  this  lone  church  at  mid-night  of  such  things, 

With  all  these  candles  burning  round  your  face. 

I  who  have  rounded  ninety-years,  and  look 

On  what  was  sweet,  long  seventy  years  ago  ? 

Feeling  this  city  even  at  mid-night  move 

In  restlessness,  desire,  around  this  church, 


EMILY  BROSSEAU:    IN  CHURCH 

Where  once  I  saw  the  prairie  grass  and  flowers ; 

And  saw  the  Indians  in  their  colored  trappings 

Pour  from  a  bottle  of  whisky  on  the  fire 

A  tribute  to  the  Spirit  of  the  world, 

And  dance  and  sing  for  madness  of  that  Spirit  ? 

Well,  Jean,  my  other  hour.     Pve  spoken  before 

Of  our  long  life  together  glad  and  sad, 

But  mostly  good.     I'm  happy  for  it  all. 

This  other  hour  is  marked,  I  call  it  heaven 

Just  as  I  told  you,  not  because  they  stood 

Around  me  as  a  mystery  from  the  past, 

And  looked  at  me  admiringly  for  my  age, 

My  strength  in  age,  my  life  that  spanned  the  growth 

Of  my  Chicago  from  a  place  of  huts, 

Just  four  or  five,  a  fort,  and  all  around  it 

A  wilderness,  to  what  it  is  this  hour 

Where  most  three  million  souls  are  living,  nor 

Because  I  saw  this  rude  life,  and  beheld 

The  World's  Fair  where  such  richnesses  of  time 

Were  spread  before  me  —  not  because  of  these, 

Nor  for  the  ninety  roses,  nor  the  tribute 

They  paid  me  in  them,  nor  their  gentle  words  — 

These  did  not  make  that  hour  a  heaven,  no  — 

Jean,  it  was  this  : 

First  I  was  just  as  happy 
As  I  was  on  that  night  we  danced  together, 
c  [17] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

And  that  I  could  repeat  that  hour's  great  bliss 

At  ninety  years,  though  in  a  different  way, 

And  for  a  different  cause,  that  was  the  thing 

That  made  me  happy.     For  you  see  it  proves, 

Just  give  the  soul  a  chance  it's  happiness 

Is  endless,  let  the  body  house  it  well, 

Or  house  it  ill,  but  give  it  but  a  chance 

To  speak  itself,  not  stifle  it,  or  hush  it 

With  hands  of  flesh  against  the  quivering  strings, 

Made  sick  or  weak  by  time,  the  soul  will  find 

Delights  as  good  as  youth  has  to  the  end. 

And  even  if  the  flesh  be  sick  there's  Heine : 

Few  men  had  raptures  keen  as  his,  though  lying 

With  death  beside  him  through  a  stretch  of  years. 

It  must  be  something  in  the  soul  as  well, 

Which  makes  me  think  a  third  hour  shall  be  mine 

In  spite  of  death,  yes  Jean  it  must  be  so ! 

I  want  that  third  hour,  I  shall  pray  for  it 

Unceasingly,  I  want  it  for  my  soul's  sake : 

Which  will  have  happiness  in  its  very  power 

And  dignity  that  time  nor  change  can  hurt. 

For  if  I  have  it  you  shall  have  it  too. 

And  in  that  third  hour  we  shall  give  each  other 

Something  that's  kindred  to  the  souls  we  gave 

That  night  we  danced  together  —  but  much  more !  . 

It's  dawn  !     Good  bye  till  then,  my  Jean,  good  bye ! 

[181 


THE  OUIJA  BOARD 

IV 
THE  OUIJA  BOARD 

(David  Kennison  died  in  Chicago  February  24th,  1852, 
aged  115  years,  3  months  and  17  days.  Veteran  of 
the  Revolution.) 

David  Kennison  is  here  born  at  Kingston  in  the  year 

Seventeen  thirty-seven  and  it's  nineteen  sixteen  now, 
Dumped    the    tea    into   the    harbor,    saw    Cornwallis' 

career 

End  at  Yorktown  with  the  sullen  thunder  written 
on  his  brow. 

Was  at  West  Point  when  the  traitor  Arnold  gave  up 

the  fort, 

Saw  them  hang  Major  Andre  for  a  spy  and  his  due. 
Settled  down  in  Sackett's  Harbor  for  a  rest  of  a  sort, 
Till  I  crossed  the  western  country  in  the  year  forty- 
two. 

And  I  saw  Chicago  rising  in  the  ten  years  to  come, 
Ere  I  passed  in  the  fifties  to  the  peace  of  the  dead. 

Now  where  is  there  a  city  in  the  whole  of  Christendom 
Where  such  roar  is  and  such  walking  is  around  a 
grave's  head  ? 

[191 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

Oh,  'twas  fighting  as  a  soldier  in  the  wars  of  the  land ; 

And  'twas  giving  and  living  to  make  the  people  free 
That  kept  me  past  a  century  an  oak  to  withstand 

The  heat  and  snow  and  weevils  that  break  down  a 
tree. 

There  were  other  dead  around  me  with  a  slab  to  mark 
When  they  heaped  the  final  pillow  for  my  honor's 
meed. 

Now  the  lovers  stopping  curiously  in  Lincoln  Park 
Look  at  the  bronze  tablet  on  my  boulder  and  read : 

How  I  fought  at  Long  Island  and  fought  at  White 

Plains  - 
What  does  it  mean  you  lovers  who  scan  what  is 

scored 

On  the  tablet  on  my  boulder  ? — Why  the  task  remains 
To  make  the  torch  brighter  and  to  keep  clean  the 
sword. 

Go  labor  for  the  future.     Go  make  the  cities  great : 
There  are  other  realms  to  conquer  for  the  men  to 
be. 

For  it's  toil  and  it's  courage  that  solve  a  soul's  fate, 
And  it's  giving  and  living  that  make  a  people  free ! 


20 


HANGING  THE  PICTURE 

V 
HANGING  THE  PICTURE 

Before  you  pull  that  string, 

And  strip  away  that  veil, 

I  rise  to  enter  my  objection 

To  the  hanging  of  Archer  Price's  picture 

Here  in  this  hall.  .  .  . 

For  I'll  venture  the  artist  has  tried  to  soften 

The  vain  and  shifty  look  of  the  eyes ; 

And  the  face  that  looked  like  a  harte-beest's, 

And  the  rabbit  mouth  that  looked  like  a  horse's, 

Lipping  oats  from  a  leather  bag ! 

I  knew  this  man  in  '28 
When  he  drifted  here  from  Maine,  he  said. 
And  now  it's  eighteen  ninety  two : 
This  year  is  sacred  to  conquerors, 
Discoverers  and  soldiers. 
And  I  object  to  the  hanging  of  pictures 
Of  men  who  trade  while  others  fight, 
And  follow  the  army  to  get  the  loot, 
And  rest  till  other  men  are  tired, 
Then  grab  the  spoils  while  the  workers  sleep. 
I  would  like  to  burn  all  masks, 
And  padded  shoes, 
And  smash  all  dark  lanterns. 

[21] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

And  take  all  friends  of  the  people 

And  brand  them  with  the  letter  "B," 

Which  means  "Betrayer." 

And  I  would  like  to  enter  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven 

Just  to  see  the  publicans  who  will  be  there, 

And  the  Archer  Prices  who  will  not  be  there ! 

You  call  him  a  great  man, 

And  a  prophetic  man, 

And  a  leader,  and  a  savior, 

And  a  man  who  was  wise  in  an  evil  world 

Of  tangled  interests  and  selfish  power, 

And  who  knew  the  art  of  compromise, 

And  how  to  get  half  when  you  can't  get  all ! 

You  haven't  probed  deep  enough  in  this  man. 

For  he  was  great  as  the  condor  is  great. 

And  prophetic  as  the  wolf  is  prophetic. 

And  a  leader  as  the  jackal  is  a  leader. 

And  his  wisdom  was  that  of  the  python, 

Which  will  swallow  a  hare  when  no  pig  is  at  hand ! 

He  was  rich, 

He  was  well  known, 

His  name  was  linked  with  lofty  things, 

And  adorned  all  noble  committees. 

And  he  was  a  friend  of  art  and  music  — 

He  gave  them  money  ! 

He  was  on  the  Library  Board, 


HANGING  THE   PICTURE 

And  the  Commerce  Board,  and  every  board 

For  building  up  the  city  — 

I  admit  these  things.     They  were  pawns  on  the  board 

for  him. 

That's  why  I  rise  to  enter  my  objection 
To  hanging  his  picture  here ! 

We  had  no  telephones  in  those  days. 

But  there  was  a  certain  man  of  power, 

A  man  who  was  feared,  as  one  might  fear 

A  lion  that  hides  in  the  jungle. 

And  this  man  sat  in  a  hidden  room 

As  a  banded-epira  waits  and  watches. 

And  he  went  from  this  room  to  his  house  in  a  cab, 

And  back  to  this  room  in  a  cab. 

But  everyone  knew  that  Archer  Price 

Was  doing  the  will  of  the  man  in  the  room, 

Though  you  never  saw  the  two  together, 

As  you  never  could  see  together  the  leaders 

Of  some  of  these  late  bi-partisan  deals. 

But  Archer  Price  was  so  much  alike 

This  secret  man  in  the  room ; 

And  did  so  much  what  we  knew 

He  wanted  done,  and  built  the  city 

So  near  to  the  heart's  desire  of  this  man 

That  all  of  us  knew  that  the  two  conferred 

In  spite  of  the  fact  that  telephones 

Had  never  been  heard  of  then.  .  .  . 

[23] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

Well,  because  of  this  man  in  the  room, 

As  well  as  because  of  Price  himself, 

Everyone  feared  him,  no  one  knew 

Exactly  how  to  fight  him. 

Everyone  hated  him,  although 

Everyone  helped  him  to  wealth  and  power. 

He  was  what  you'd  call  a  touch-me-not. 

If  you  clodded  him  you  ran  the  risk 

Of  hitting  the  teacher,  or  maybe  a  child. 

He  always  walked  with  the  wind  to  his  back : 

If  you  spit  at  him  it  would  fly  in  your  face. 

And  though  we  suspected  more  than  we  knew 

Of  his  subtle  machinations, 

No  one  could  attack  him  for  what  was  known. 

Because  the  things  he  was  known  to  be  doing 

Were  service  to  those,  who  couldn't  allow 

The  service  to  be  imperiled. 

There  never  was  a  time 

This  man  was  out  of  public  office. 

He  clung  to  the  people's  treasury 

As  a  magnet  clings  to  a  magnet. 

Why  didn't  your  orator  tell  this  audience 

He  started  in  life  as  town  assessor  ? 

That  would  have  left  me  with  nothing  to  say 

Except  he  traded  the  fixing  of  taxes 

For  business ! 

Oh,  you  people  who  unveil  pictures  ! 

[24] 


HANGING  THE   PICTURE 

In  his  day  no  one  was  permitted  to  say  this. 

And  now  everyone  has  forgotten  it. 

It  is  useless  to  say  it. 

And  here  in  the  year  of  Columbus 

You  are  unveiling  his  picture ! 

And  you  say  the  Illinois  and  Michigan  Canal 

Had  never  been  built  or  saved  for  the  people 

Except  for  Archer  Price  ! 

Why  don't  you  tell  that  he  fought  the  Canal  in  1830, 

Saying  it  would  burden  the  people  ? 

And  why  don't  you  say  that  even  then 

He  was  acting  for  his  own  interests  and  the  man  in  the 

room  ? 

Why  don't  you  show  that  his  art  of  compromise 
Created  the  Public  Canal  Committee 
When  he  failed  to  block  the  Canal, 
And  failed  of  appointment  as  Canal  Commissioner  ? 
Why  don't  you  show  that  through  that  committee 
The  squatters  stole  the  wharves  on  the  river  ? 
Why  don't  you  show  how  his  friends  grew  rich 
Through  buying  the  lands  at  public  sales 
Which  were  given  to  build  the  Canal, 
And  which  the  Committee  was  pretending  to  conserve  ? 
Why  don't  you  show  that  through  that  Committee, 
Pretending  to  be  a  friend  of  the  people, 
He  opened  a  fight  at  length  on  the  squatters 
And  won  the  fight,  and  won  the  wharves 

[251 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

For  himself  and  a  clique  of  friends  ? 
Why  don't  you  tell  —  ? 

Cry  me  down  if  you  will  — 
I  object  —  I  object  — 

VI 
THE  LINCOLN  AND  DOUGLAS  DEBATES 

Have  you  ever  seen  the  Douglas  monument 

There  in  Chicago  ? 

They  say  it's  by  the  Lake, 

With  a  column  of  marble  a  hundred  feet  high, 

And  a  statue  of  The  Little  Giant  on  top, 

With  knit  brows  and  lion  face, 

Like  he  used  to  look  when  debatin'  with  Linkern. 

I  want  to  go  up  to  Chicago  sometime, 

To  see  that  monument. 

And  some  one  told  me 

They  carved  on  his  marble  coffin  the  words : 

"Tell  my  children  to  obey  the  laws, 

And  uphold  the  constitution." 

Well,  they  couldn't  have  put  sadder  words 

On  his  coffin  than  that. 

For  it  was  tryin'  to  obey  the  laws  and  support  the 

constitution 
That  killed  him. 

And  why  should  his  children  do  the  same  thing  and  die  ? 

[26] 


THE  LINCOLN  AND  DOUGLAS  DEBATES 

You  young  men  of  this  day  don't  care, 

And  you  don't  understand  the  old  questions. 

But  a  man's  life  is  always  worth  understanding, 

Especially  a  man's  like  The  Little  Giant. 

Now  this  was  the  point : 

There  was  that  devilish  thing  slavery, 

And  The  Little  Giant,  as  senator, 

Put  through  a  bill  for  leaving  it  to  the  people     ' 

Whether  they  would  have  slavery  in  Kansas  or  Ne 
braska, 

Or  any  other  territory,  and  that  was  popular  sover 
eignty  — 

And  sounds  democratic ;   but  three  years  later 

Along  comes  the  Supreme  Court  and  says : 

The  people  of  a  territory  must  have  slavery 

Whether  they  want  it  or  not,  because 

The  constitution  is  for  slavery,  and  it  follows  the  flag ! 

Well,  there  was  The  Little  Giant 

Caught  between  the  law  and  the  constitution ! 

And  tryin'  to  obey  'em  both ! 

Or  better  still  he  was  like  Lem  Reese's  boy 

Who  was  standin'  one  time  one  foot  on  shore, 

And  one  in  a  skiff,  baitin'  a  hook, 

And  all  at  once  Col.  Lankford's  little  steamer 

Came  along  and  bobbled  the  skiff ; 

And  it  started  to  glide  out  into  the  river,  — 

Why  the  boy  walked  like  a  spread  compass 

For  a  month. 

[27] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

For  the  skiff  was  movin',  and  that's  the  law ; 
And  his  other  foot  slipped  on  the  slimy  bank, 
And  that's  the  constitution  ! 

But  if  you  want  to  consider  a  minute 

How  Time  plays  tag  with  people, 

And  how  no  one  can  tell 

When  he'll  be  It,  just  think : 

There  was  Bill  McKinley 

Who   kept   the   old   constitution's   from   goin'   to   the 

Philippines, 
And  they  elected  him. 
And  here  was  The  Little  Giant, 
Who  wanted  to  send  it  everywhere, 
And  they  defeated  him. 
So  you  see  it  depends  on  what  it  means 
Whether  you  want  to  keep  it  or  send  it. 
And  nobody  knows  what  it  means  — 
Not  even  judges. 

But  just  the  same  them  were  great  days. 

One  time  The  Little  Giant  came  here  with  Linkern 

And  talked  from  the  steps  of  the  Court-house ; 

And  you  never  saw  such  a  crowd  of  people  : 

Democrats,  Whigs,  and  Locofocos, 

Know-nothings  and  Anti-masonics, 

Blue  lights,  Spiritualists,  Republicans 

Free  Soilers,  Socialists,  Americans  —  such  a  crowd. 


THE  LINCOLN  AND  DOUGLAS   DEBATES 

Linkern's  voice  squeaked  up  high, 

And  didn't  carry. 

But  Douglas ! 

People  out  yonder  in  Proctor's  Grove, 

A  mile  from  the  Court  House  steps, 

Could  hear  him  roar  and  hear  him  say: 

"I'm  going  to  trot  him  down  to  Egypt 

And  see  if  he'll  say  the  things  he  says 

To  the  black  republicans  in  northern  Illinois." 

It  made  you  shiver  all  down  your  spine 

To  see  that  face  and  hear  that  voice  — 

And  that  was  The  Little  Giant ! 

And  then  on  the  other  hand  there  was 

Abe  Linkern  standing  six  foot  four, 

As  thin  as  a  rail,  with  a  high-keyed  voice, 

And  sometimes  solemn,  and  sometimes  comic 

As  any  clown  you  ever  saw, 

And  runnin'  Col.  Lankford's  little  steamer, 

As  it  were,  you  know,  which  would  bobble  the  skiff, 

Which  was  the  law ;   and  The  Little  Giant's  other  foot 

Would  slip  on  the  bank,  which  was  the  constitution. 

And  you  could  almost  hear  him  holler  "ouch." 

And  Linkern  would  say :  This  argument 

Of  the  Senator's  is  thin  as  soup 

Made  from  the  shadow  of  a  starved  pigeon ! 

And  then  the  crowd  would  yell,  and  the  cornet  band 

Would  play,  and  men  would  walk  away  and  say : 

[29] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

Linkern  floored  him.     And  others  would  say : 

He  aint  no  match  for  The  Little  Giant. 

But  I'll  declare  if  I  could  decide 

Which  whipped  the  other. 

For   to   let  the  people   decide   whether   they   wanted 

slavery 

Sounded  good. 

And  to  have  the  constitution  in  force  sounded  good. 
And  not  to  have  any  slavery  at  all  sounded  good. 
But  so  far  as  the  law  was  concerned, 
And  where  it  was,  and  what  you  could  do  with  it 
It  was  like  the  shell  game : 
Now  you  see  the  little  ball  and  now  you  don't ! 
Who's  got  a  dollar  to  say  where  the  little  ball  is  ? 

But  when  you  try  to  obey  the  laws  and  support  the 

constitution, 

It  reminds  me  of  a  Campbellite  preacher 
We  had  here  years  ago. 

And  he  debated  with  the  Methodist  preacher 
As  to  whether  immersion  or  sprinkling 
Was  the  way  to  salvation. 
And  the  Campbellite  preacher  said  : 
"The  holy  scripture  says  : 
'And  Jesus  when  he  was  baptised 
Went  up  straightway  out  of  the  water.' 
And  how  could  he  come  up  out  of  the  water 
If  he  wasn't  in  ?"  asked  the  Campbellite  preacher, 

[30] 


THE  LINCOLN  AND  DOUGLAS  DEBATES 

Pointing  a  long  finger  at  the  Methodist  preacher. 

"And  how  could  he  be  in  without  being  immersed  ?" 

Well,  the  Campbellite  preacher  won  the  debate. 

But  the  next  day  Billy  Bell, 

An  infidel  we  had  here, 

Met  the  Campbellite  preacher  and  said  : 

"  I  suppose  it  wouldn't  be  possible  for  a  man 

To  stand  in  water  up  to  his  knees 

And  have  water  sprinkled  on  his  head,  would  it  ? " 

And  the  Campbellite  preacher  said  : 

"Get  thee  behind  me  Satan,"  and  went  on. 

Well  Linkern  was  kind  of  an  infidel, 

And  The  Little  Giant  got  caught  in  his  own  orthodoxy, 

And  his  ability  for  debate  led  him  into 

The  complete  persuading  of  himself. 

And  by  arguin'  for  the  law 

He  made  Linkern  appear 

As  bein'  against  the  law. 

But  just  think,  for  a  minute,  young  man  : 

Here  is  The  Little  Giant  the  greatest  figure  in  all  the 

land 

And  the  wheel  of  fortune  turns 
And  he  stands  by  Linkern's  side  and  holds 
His  hat  while  Linkern  takes  the  oath 
As  president ! 

Then  the  war  comes  and  his  leadership 
Has  left  him,  and  millions  who  followed  him 

[31] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

Turn  from  him,  and  then  Death  comes, 
And  sits  by  him  and  says  :  Your  time's  up ! 
So  I  say  when  they  put  up  that  monument 
And  carved  those  words  upon  it 
They  had  just  as  well  have  carved  the  words, 
"He  took  poison." 

Which  reminds  me : 

There  was  a  family  over  at  Dutchland 

Named  Nitchie. 

And  my  boy  writes  me  from  college 

That  there  is  a  writer  named  Nitchie 

Who  says  —  well  I  can't  tell  you  just  now. 

But  if  you'll  look  at  things  close 

You'll  see  that  Linkern  was  against  the  legal  law, 

And  Douglas  against  the  moral  law  so-called, 

And  neither  cared  for  the  other's  law  - 

And  that  was  the  real  debate ! 

Linkern  rode  over  laws  to  save  the  Union, 

And  Douglas  said  he  cared  more  for  white  supremacy 

Than  anything  else. 

Which  being  true,  who  can  tell 

Who  won  the  debates  ? 

Is  it  better  to  have  the  Union, 

Or  better  to  have  a  master  race  ? 

I'll  go  over  to  the  post-office  now 

And  see  if  there's  a  letter  from  my  boy. 

[32] 


VII 
AUTOCHTHON 

In  a  rude  country  some  four  thousand  miles 

From  Charles'  and  Alfred's  birthplace  you  were  born, 

In  the  same  year.     But  Charles  and  you  were  born 

On  the  same  day,  and  Alfred  six  months  later. 

Thus  start  you  in  a  sense  the  race  together.  .  .  . 

Charles  goes  to  Edinburgh,  afterwards 

His  father  picks  him  for  the  ministry, 

And  sends  him  off  to  Cambridge  where  he  spends 

His  time  on  beetles  and  geology, 

Neglects  theology.     Alfred  is  here 

Fondling  a  Virgil  and  a  Horace. 

But  you  —  these  years  you  give  to  reading  JEsop, 

The  Bible,  lives  of  Washington  and  Franklin, 

And  Kirkham's  grammar. 

In  1830  Alfred  prints  a  book 

Containing  "Mariana,"  certain  other 

Delicate,  wind-blown  bells  of  airy  music. 

And  in  this  year  you  move  from  Indiana 

And  settle  near  Decatur,  Illinois, 

Hard  by  the  river  Sangamon  where  fever 

And  ague  burned  and  shook  the  poor 

Swamp  saffron  creatures  of  that  desolate  land. 

While  Alfred  walks  the  flowering  lanes  of  England, 

D  [331 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

And  reads  Theocritus  to  the  song  of  larks 
You  clear  the  forests,  plow  the  stumpy  land, 
Fight  off  the  torments  of  mosquitoes,  flies 
And  study  Kirkham's  grammar. 

In  1831  Charles  takes  a  trip 

Around  the  world,  sees  South  America, 

And  studies  living  things  in  Galapagos, 

Tahiti,  Keeling  Island  and  Tasmania. 

In  1831  you  take  a  trip 

Upon  a  flat-boat  down  to  New  Orleans 

Through  hardships  scarcely  less  than  Joliet 

And  Marquette  knew  in  1673, 

Return  on  foot  to  Orfutt's  store  at  Salem. 

By  this  time  Jacques  Rousseau  was  canonized ; 
Jefferson  dead  but  seven  years  or  so ; 
Brook  Farm  was  budding,  Garrison  had  started 
His  Liberator,  Fourier  still  alive ; 
And  Emerson  was  preening  his  slim  wings 
For  flights  into  broad  spaces  —  there  was  stir 
Enough  to  sweep  the  Shelleyan  heads,  —  in  truth 
Shelley  was  scarcely  passed  a  decade  then. 
Old  Godwin  still  was  writing,  wars  for  freedom 
Swept  through  the  Grecian  Isles,  America 
Had  "isms"  in  abundance,  but  not  one 
Took  hold  of  you. 

In  1832  Alfred  has  drawn 

[34] 


AUTOCHTHON 

Out  of  old  Mallory  and  Grecian  myths 

The  "Lady  of  Shalott"  and  fair  "CEnone," 

And  put  them  into  verse. 

This  is  the  year  you  fight  the  Black  Hawk  war, 

And  issue  an  address  to  Sangamon's  people. 

You  are  but  twenty-three,  yet  this  address 

Would  not  shame  Charles  or  Alfred ;   it's  restrained, 

And  sanely  balanced,  without  extra  words, 

Or  youth's  conceits,  or  imitative  figures,  dreams 

Or  "isms"  of  the  day.     No,  here  you  hope 

That  enterprise,  morality,  sobriety 

May  be  more  general,  and  speak  a  word 

For  popular  education,  so  that  all 

May  have  a  "moderate  education"  as  you  say. 

You  make  a  plea  for  railroads  and  canals, 

And  ask  the  suffrages  of  the  people,  saying 

You  have  known  disappointment  far  too  much 

To  be  chagrined  at  failure,  if  you  lose. 

They  take  you  at  your  word  and  send  another 

To  represent  them  in  the  Legislature. 

Then  you  decide  to  learn  the  blacksmith's  trade. 

But  Fate  comes  by  and  plucks  you  by  the  sleeve, 

And  changes  history,  doubtless. 

By  '36  when  Charles  returns  to  England 
You  have  become  a  legislator ;  yes 
You  tried  again  and  won.     You  have  become 
A  lawyer  too,  by  working  through  the  levels 

[35] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

Of  laborer,  store-keeper  and  surveyor, 

Wrapped  up  in  problems  of  geometry, 

And  Kirkham's  grammar  and  Sir  William  Blackstone, 

And  Coke  on  Littleton,  and  Joseph  Chitty. 

Brook  Farm  will  soon  bloom  forth,  Francois  Fourier 

Is  still  on  earth,  and  Garrison  is  shaking 

Terrible  lightning  at  Slavocracy. 

And  certain  libertarians,  videlicet 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier  and  others,  sing 

The  trampling  out  of  grapes  of  wrath ;   in  truth 

The  Hebrews  taught  the  idealist  how  to  sing 

Destruction  in  the  name  of  God  and  curse 

Where  strength  was  lacking  for  the  sword  —  but  you 

Are  not  a  Robert  Emmet,  or  a  Shelley, 

Have  no  false  dreams  of  dying  to  bring  in 

The  day  of  Liberty.     At  twenty-three 

You're  measuring  the  world  and  waiting  for 

Dawn's  mists  to  clear  that  you  may  measure  it, 

And  know  the  field's  dimensions  ere  you  put 

Your  handle  to  the  plow. 

In  1833  a  man  named  Hallam, 

A  friend  of  Alfred's,  died  at  twenty-two. 

Thereafter  Alfred  worked  his  hopes  and  fears 

Upon  the  dark  impasto  of  this  loss 

In  delicate  colors.     And  in  1850 

When  you  were  sunk  in  melancholia, 

As  one  of  no  use  in  the  world,  adjudged 

[36] 


AUTOCHTHON 

To  be  of  no  use  by  your  time  and  place, 

Alfred  brought  forth  his  Dante  dream  of  life, 

Received  the  laureate  wreath  and  settled  down 

With  a  fair  wife  amid  entrancing  richness 

Of  sunny  seas  and  silken  sails  and  dreams 

Of  Araby, 

And  ivied  halls,  and  meadows  where  the  breeze 

Of  temperate  England  blows  the  hurrying  cloud. 

There,  seated  like  an  Oriental  king 

In  silk  and  linen  clothed  took  the  acclaim 

Of  England  and  the  world  !  .  .  . 

This  is  the  year 

You  sit  in  a  little  office  there  in  Springfield, 
Feet  on  the  desk  and  brood.     What  are  you  thinking  ? 
You're  forty-one ;   around  you  spears  are  whacking 
The  wind-mills  of  the  day,  you  watch  and  weigh. 
The  sun-light  of  your  mind  quivers  about 
The  darkness  every  thinking  soul  must  know, 
And  lights  up  hidden  things  behind  the  door, 
And  in  dark  corners.     You  have  fathomed  much, 
Weighed  life  and  men.     O  what  a  sphered  brain, 
Strong  nerved,  fresh  blooded,  firm- in  plasmic  fire, 
And  ready  for  a  task,  if  there  be  one ! 
That  is  the  question  that  makes  brooding  thought : 
For  you  know  well  men  come  into  the  world 
And  find  no  task,  and  die,  and  are  not  known  — 
Great  sphered  brains  gone  into  dust  again, 
Their  light  under  a  bushel  all  their  days  ! 

[37] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

In  1859,  Charles  publishes 

His  "Origin  of  Species,"  and  'tis  said 

You  see  it,  or  at  least  hear  what  it  is. 

Out  of  three  travelers  in  a  distant  land 

One  writes  a  book  of  what  the  three  have  seen. 

Perhaps  you  never  read  much,  yet  perhaps 

Some  books  were  just  a  record  of  your  mind. 

How  had  it  helped  you  in  your  work  to  read 

The  "Idylls  of  the  King"  ?     As  much,  perhaps, 

Had  Alfred  read  the  Northwest  Ordinance 

Of  1787.  .  .  . 

But  in  this  year 

Of  '59  you're  sunk  in  blackest  thought 
About  the  country  maybe,  but,  I  think, 
About  this  riddle  of  our  mortal  life. 
You  were  a  poet,  Abraham,  from  your  birth. 
That  makes  you  think,  and  makes  you  deal  at  last 
With  things  material  to  the  tune  of  laws 
Moving  in  higher  spaces  when  you're  called 
To  act  —  and  show  a  poet  moulding  stuff 
Too  tough  for  spirits  practical  to  mould. 
Here  are  you  with  your  feet  upon  the  desk. 
You  have  been  beaten  in  a  cause  which  kept 
Some  strings  too  loose  to  catch  the  vibrate  waves 
Of  a  great  Harp  whose  music  you  have  sensed. 
You  are  a  mathematician  using  symbols 
Like  Justice,  Truth,  with  keenness  to  perceive 

[38] 


AUTOCHTHON 

Disturbance  of  equations,  a  logician 

Who  sees  invariable  laws,  and  beauty  born 

Of  finding  out  and  following  the  laws. 

You  are  a  Plato  brooding  there  in  Springfield. 

You  are  a  poet  with  a  voice  for  Truth, 

And  never  to  be  claimed  by  visionaries 

Who  chant  the  theme  of  bread  and  bread  alone. 

But  here  and  now 

They  want  you  not  for  Senator,  it  seems. 
You  have  been  tossed  to  one  side  by  the  rush 
Of  world  events,  left  stranded  and  alone, 
And  fitted  for  no  use,  it  seems,  in  Springfield. 
A  country  lawyer  with  a  solid  logic, 
And  gift  of  prudent  phrase  which  has  a  way 
Of  hardening  under  time  to  rock  as  hard 
As  the  enduring  thought  you  seal  it  with. 
You've  reached  your  fiftieth  year,  your  occultation 
Should  pass.     If  ever,  we  should  see  a  light : 
In  all  your  life  you  have  not  seen  a  city. 
But  now  our  Springfield  giant  strides  Broadway, 
Thrills  William  Cullen  Bryant,  sets  a  wonder 
Going  about  the  East,  that  Kirkham's  grammar 
Can  give  a  man  such  speech  at  Cooper  Union, 
Which  even  Alfred's,  trained  to  Virgil's  style, 
Cannot  disdain  for  matching  in  the  thought 
With  faultless  clearness. 


[39] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

And  still  in  1860  all  the  Brahmins 

Have  fear  to  give  you  power. 

You  are  a  backwoodsman,  a  country  lawyer 

Unlettered  in  the  difficult  art  of  states. 

A  denizen  of  a  squalid  western  town, 

Dowered  with  a  knack  of  argument  alone, 

Which  wakes  the  country  school-house,  and  may  lift 

Its  devotees  to  Congress  by  good  fortune. 

But  then  at  Cooper  Union  intuitive  eyes 

Had  measured  your  tall  frame,  and  careful  speech, 

Your  strength  and  self-possession.     Then  they  came 

With  that  dramatic  sense  which  is  American 

Into  the  hall  with  rails  which  you  had  split, 

And  called  you  Honest  Abe,  and  wearing  badges 

With  your  face  on  them  and  the  poor  catch  words 

Of  Honest  Abe,  as  if  you  were  a  referee 

Like  Honest  Kelly,  when  in  truth  no  man 

Had  ever  been  your  intimate,  ever  slapped  you 

With  brisk  familiarity,  or  called  you 

Anything  but  Mr.  Lincoln,  never 

Abe,  or  Abraham,  and  never  used 

The  Hello  Bill  of  salutation  to  you  — 

O  great  patrician,  therefore  fit  to  be 

Great  democrat  as  well ! 

In  1862  Charles  publishes 

"How  Orchid  Flowers  are  Fertilized  by  Insects,'* 

And  you  give  forth  a  proclamation  saying 

[40] 


AUTOCHTHON 

"The  Union  must  have  peace,  or  I  wipe  out 

The  blot  of  negro  slavery.     You  see, 

The  symphony's  the  thing,  and  if  you  mar  it, 

Contending  over  slavery,  I  remove 

The  source  of  the  disharmony.     I  admit 

The  freedom  of  the  press  —  but  for  the  Union. 

When  you  abuse  the  Union,  you  shall  stop. 

And  when  you  are  in  jail,  no  habeas  corpus 

Shall  bring  relief  —  I  have  suspended  it." 

To-day  they  call  you  libertarian  — 

Well,  so  you  were,  but  just  as  Beauty  is, 

And  Truth  is,  even  if  they  curb  and  vanquish 

The  lower  heights  of  beauty  and  of  truth. 

They  take  your  speech  and  deeds  and  give  you  place 

In  Hebrew  temples  with  Ezekiel, 

Habakkuk  and  Isaiah  —  you  emerge 

From  this  association,  master  man  ! 

You  are  not  of  the  faith  that  breeds  the  ethic 

Wranglers,  who  make  economic  goals 

The  strain  and  test  of  life.     You  are  not  one, 

Spite  of  your  lash  and  sword  threat,  who  believe 

God  will  avenge  the  weak.     That  is  the  dream 

Which  builds  millenniums  where  disharmonies 

That  make  the  larger  harmony  shall  cease  — 

A  dream  not  yours.     And  they  shall  lose  you  who 

Enthrone  you  as  a  prophet  who  cut  through 

The  circle  of  our  human  sphere  of  life 

To  let  in  wrath  and  judgments,  final  tests 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

On  Life  around  the  price  of  sparrows,  weights 
Wherewith  bread  shall  be  weighed 

There  is  a  windless  flame  where  cries  and  tears, 

Where  hunger,  strife,  and  war  and  human  blood 

No  shadow  cast,  and  where  the  love  of  Truth, 

Which  is  not  love  of  individual  souls, 

Finds  solace  in  a  Judgment  of  our  life. 

That  is  the  Flame  that  took  both  Charles  and  You 

O  leader  in  a  Commonwealth  of  Thought ! 


42] 


VIII 
GRANT  AND  LOGAN  AND  OUR  TEARS 

'Twixt  certain  parallels  of  latitude ; 

Say  thirty-seven  and  forty-two  and  more ; 

And  certain  meridians,  say  ninety-one 

And  eighty-seven  plus. 

The  top  line  drawn  to  leave  the  lower  lake 

Shaped  like  a  drinking  cup  to  meet  your  needs ; 

To  bind  you  to  the  east  and  west, 

Save  you  from  tributary  servitude 

Through  Mississippi's  River  to  the  south. 

No  sheds  of  hills  to  guard  you  on  the  north 

Against  the  arctic  winds  loosed  at  the  pole, 

Or  Medicine  Hat  parturient  as  the  bag 

Of  Mad  ^Eolus. 

The  valley  and  the  river  just  a  hall-way 

Making  a  draft  for  tropic  heat  in  summer  — 

Well,  here  you  are  in  physiography. 

Upon  a  time  black  soil  was  poured 
Over  your  surface  as  the  cook 
Pours  chocolate  on  a  cake. 
So  you  are  fertile,  never  a  land  so  rich. 

A  little  river  flowing  in  the  lake 
Vanishing  in  marshes  up  a  mile  or  so 
Makes  for  a  portage  to  another  stream 

[43] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

Which  empties  in  another  stream  which  empties 

Into  the  Mississippi. 

A  spot  between  the  lake  and  river  lies 

Upon  the  highway  binding  east  and  west, 

And  from  the  south  and  north  where  traders  meet. 

This  is  the  very  place  to  build  a  fort  — 

The  fort  becomes  a  town  within  a  year, 

A  great  metropolis  in  half  a  cycle. 

Within  a  lifetime  you  have  gained 

Some  seven  million  souls. 

The  land  of  Luther  sends  a  swarming  host; 

And  Milton's  land  adventurous  sons ; 

And  Scandinavia's  realm, 

And  Michael  Angelo's  mountains, 

All  Europe  pours  her  wealth 

Of  brawn  and  spirit  on  you, 

Until  you  are  an  empire 

Of  restless  vital  men,  and  teeming  towns. 

Before  you  were  grown  rich, 

And  populous 

You  brightened  history ; 

Great  men  came  from  you. 

But  now  that  you  have  cities  and  great  treasure 

Where  are  your  great  ones  ? 

What  is  your  genius  ? 

What  star  enwraps  your  eyes  ? 

[44] 


GRANT  AND  LOGAN  AND  OUR  TEARS 

What  heights  allure  you  ? 

Hermaphroditic  giant,  sad  and  drunk 

Not  gay,  but  foolish,  stuffed  with  new  baked  bread, 

Who  took  away  your  gland  pituitary, 

Abandoned  you  to  such  exaggerate  growth 

Without  increase  of  soul  ? 

You  blasphemous,  yet  afraid, 

Licentious,  yet  ashamed, 

Swaggering,  yet  blubbering 

And  boasting  of  your  rights. 

Materialist  who  woos  the  spiritual, 

Who  holds  aloft  the  cross  from  which  you've  sold 

The  nails  to  junk-men. 

And  makes  a  hackle  from  the  crown  of  thorns 

Wherewith  to  hackle  hemp  to  make  a  rope 

For  your  own  hanging  in  the  Philippines  ! 

Who  with  one  hand  grabs  off  the  widow's  mite, 

And  with  the  other  tosses  golden  coins 

Into  the  beggar's  cup. 

The  black-snake  whip  in  one  hand,  in  the  other 

A  plentiful  supply  of  surgeon's  tape.     Oh  you  ! 

A  hard  oppressor,  charitably  inclined, 

And  keen  to  see  and  take  the  outward  image  — 

Devoid  of  categories  to  reduce 

Its  truth  and  meaning. 

No  seed  of  old  world  thistles  should  be  sown  here, 
Or  let  to  fly  upon  this  soil. 

[45] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

Yet  dogma  has  been  sown  here 

Men  rise  thereby  who  sow  the  seed  again ; 

Accessory  spirits  keep  the  ground  well  stirred. 

It's  gold  and  then  it's  power,  but  gold  at  last. 

And  for  the  rest  what  are  your  dominant  breeds  ? 

Smug  cultures  where  the  aggregate  mind  is  leather 

Gorged  with  the  oil  respectability 

Impervious  to  thought. 

These  pick  the  eunuch  type  as  being  safe, 

American,  it's  called  : 

Sleek,  quiet,  smiling,  ready  servitors 

Who  for  the  salary,  and  that  alone, 

(Require  no  bribes) 

Effect  the  business  will. 

You  are  a  hollow  thing  of  steel,  a  cauldron, 
No  monument  of  freedom. 
You're  lettered,  it  is  true, 
With  many  luminous  truths  that  came  to  be 
Through  deeds  of  men  who  died  for  liberty. 
But  inside  you  there  is  a  seething  compost 
Of  public  schools,  the  ballot,  journalism, 
Laws,  jurisprudence,  dogma,  gold  the  chief 
Ingredient  all  stirred  into  a  brew 
Wherewith  to  feed  yourself  and  keep  yourself 
The  thing  you  are ! 
Not  wholly  slave,  not  really  free, 
Desiring  vaguely  to  be  master  moral, 

[46] 


GRANT  AND  LOGAN  AND  OUR  TEARS 

And  yet  too  sicklied  over  by  old  truths, 
The  ballot,  fear,  plebian  spirit,  lack  of  mind, 
To  reach  patrician  levels  — 
Hermaphroditic  giant,  misty-eyed, 
Half  blinded  by  ideals,  half  by  greed  ! 

Can  nothing  but  a  war, 

The  prospect  of  a  slaughter  or  the  prize 

Of  foreign  lands,  shake  off  your  lethargy, 

And  make  you  seem  as  big  in  spirit  as 

You  are  in  body  ? 

Would  you  not  love  the  general  weal  improved  ? 

Would  you  not  love  your  towns  made  beautiful  ? 

Your  halls  and  courts 

Reclaimed  from  dicers'  oaths  ? 

Your  laws  made  just  and  tuned  to  god-like  laws  ? 

Your  weights  and  measures  made  invariable  ? 

Is  there  no  tonic  in  such  hopes  as  these 

To  rouse  you,  giant  ? 

I  think  you  are  Delilah 

Tricked  out  as  Liberty  for  a  fancy  ball, 

Spiritless,  provincal,  shabby,  dull, 

Where  no  ways  gentle,  no  natural  mirth  prevails. 

You've  put  your  Samson's  eye  out ;  he  would  see. 

You've  chained  him  to  the  grinder,  he  would  play, 

Be  wise  and  human,  free,  courageous,  fair, 

Of  cleaner  flesh  and  nobler  spirit.     Look 

[47] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

He  may  pull  down  your  bastard  temple  yet, 
And  make  you  use  pentelic  marble  for 
Rebuilding  of  the  Parthenon  you  planned, 
And  leave  the  misse  stone  thrown  in  a  heap 
For  sheep  gates  in  the  walls  of  Ancient  Zion  ! 


THE  MUNICIPAL  PIER 

Great  snail  whose  lofty  horns  are  knobbed  with  gold  ; 

Long  javelin  of  red-wood  lying  straight 

Upon  the  changing  indigos  which  unfold 

In  blues  and  chrysophrases  from  the  gate 

Of  this  our  city  sea-ward,  till  the  gull 

Becomes  a  gnat  where  lights  annihilate 

The  wings'  last  beat !     Or  are  you  like  a  hull 

Pompeiian  red  upon  the  Nile's  slate  green  ? 

Or  are  you  like  these  clouds  which  fanciful 

Half  open  eyes  make  giant  fish  serene, 

And  motionless  as  rifts  of  carbuncles 

Sunk  in  a  waste  of  faience  sky,  between 

Such  terrifying  turquoise  ?     Darkness  dulls 

The  torches  of  your  towers  struck  to  flame 

By  sun-set,  and  you  mass  amid  the  hulls 

Of  shadows  on  the  water,  then  reclaim 

This  blackness  with  a  thousand  eyes  of  light ! 

Peirseus  made  with  hands,  which  over-came 

The  waters,  where  no  point  of  land  gave  might 

To  walls  and  slips,  no  Peiraic  promontory 

Inspired  our  Hippodamus  in  his  flight 

Sea-ward  with  docks,  parades,  an  auditory 

E  [49] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

For  music  and  a  dancing  floor  for  youths, 

But  only  the  sea  tempted.     Telling  the  story 

That  grows  within  the  loop,  its  dens  and  booths, 

And  palaces  of  trade,  is  to  omit 

The  city's  lofty  genius  and  the  truths 

Through  which  she  works  at  best,  against  the  wit 

Of  creatures  who  would  sell  her  body,  take 

The  money  of  the  sale  as  perquisite 

For  grossness  in  luxurious  life.     Awake 

Themistocles  of  us  and  carve  the  dream 

Of  Burnham  into  stone  !     Along  this  lake 

Such  as  no  city  looks  on,  to  redeem 

Its  shores  from  shrieks  and  crashes,  refuse,  smoke 

'His  architectural  vision  sketched  the  scheme 

Of  harbors,  islands,  boulevards  —  he  spoke 

For  these,  the  concourse,  stadium  and  a  tomb 

For  that  dull  infamy  of  filth  whose  cloak 

Is  law,  hiding  the  greedy  hands  that  doom 

To  long  delay  with  bribery.     He  is  gone 

These  several  years  into  the  .narrow  room 

Where  beauty  is  no  more  of  walk  or  lawn, 

Or  arch  or  peristyle,  but  still  he  says : 

"  Work  quickly  into  form  what  I  have  drawn, 

And  give  Chicago  of  these  middle  days 

The  glory  which  it  merits :  To  this  Pier 

Make  wide  the  marble  way,  build  new  the  quays 

Give  to  the  swimmers  depths  made  fresh  and  clear, 

Lay  out  the  flowering  gardens,  founts  and  pools 


THE  MUNICIPAL  PIER 

Such  as  Versailles  knows.     The  river  steer 

Under  the  arches  of  two  decked  bascules." 

Look  at  the  photographs  of  seventy-six, 

Whoever  you  are  who  mocks  or  ridicules 

This  city,  then  imagine  stones  and  bricks 

Which  from  such  lowness  rose,  in  fifty  years 

By  so  much  grown  miraculous  to  transfix 

The  future's  wonder  as  ours  is  for  piers 

Like  this,  Chicago !     0  ye  men  who  wield 

Small  strength  or  great  or  none,  too  apt  at  sneers 

For  men  who  did  too  little,  you  must  yield 

Your  names  for  judgment  soon,  have  you  done  more 

To  make  this  city  great  than  Marshall  Field  ? 

While  you  were  railing,  idling,  on  this  shore 

Hands  silent,  out  of  sight  were  plunged  in  toil. 

You  woke  one  morning  to  the  waters'  roar 

And  saw  these  gilded  turrets  flash  and  spoil 

The  sun-light  of  the  spring.     What  have  you  sown 

Of  truth  or  beauty  in  this  eager  soil 

To  make  your  living  felt,  your  labor  known  ? 

Sometimes  I  see  silk  banners  in  the  sky, 

And  hear  the  sound  of  silver  trumpets  blown, 

And  bells  high  turreted.     And  passing  by 

This  firmament  of  rolling  blue  great  throngs 

Stream  in  an  air  of  brilliant  sun  where  I 

A  century  gone  am  of  it,  when  my  songs 

Are  but  a  record  of  a  day  that  died, 

And  saw  the  end  of  desecrating  wrongs. 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

How  sweet  bells  are  borne  on  the  evening  tide 
High   up   where   heaven   is   flushed   and   the 

sphere 

Looks  down  on  temples,  arches,  where  the  wide 
Eternal  waters  thunder  round  the  Pier ! 


GOBINEAU  TO  TREE 

Since  our  talk  at  Christiana  I  have  read 

All  you  referred  me  to  concerning  Lincoln : 

His  speeches  and  the  story  of  the  struggle 

Which  ended  in  your  war,  not  civil  really 

But  waged  between  two  nations  —  but  no  matter  ! 

To  me  whose  life  is  closing,  and  whose  life 

Was  spent  in  struggle,  much  of  misery, 

In  friendship  with  De  Tocqueville  then  at  odds 

With  him  and  his  philosophy,  who  knew 

Bismarck,  who  saw  the  wars  of  Europe,  saw 

Great  men  come  up  and  fall,  and  systems  change, 

Who  probed  into  the  Renaissance  and  mastered 

Religions  and  philosophies  and  wrote 

Concerning  racial  inequalities  — 

To  me  I  say  this  crisis  of  your  time 

And  country  seems  remote  as  it  might  be 

Almost  in  far  Australia,  trivial 

In  substance  and  effect,  or  world  result. 

And  now  your  letter  and  these  documents 

Concerning  Douglas  yield  but  scanty  gold. 

Perhaps  I've  reached  an  age  where  I  cannot 

Digest  new  matter,  or  resolve  its  worth, 

Extract  its  bearing  and  significance. 

[531 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

But  since  you  ask  me  I  am  writing  you 
What  IVe  arrived  at. 

From  the  photographs 
And  the  descriptions  of  your  Illinois, 
Where  Lincoln  spent  his  youth,  I  almost  sicken : 
Small  muddy  rivers  flanked  by  bottom  lands 
So  fat  of  fertile  stuff  the  grossest  weeds 
Thrive  thriftier  than  in  Egypt,  round  their  roots 
Repulsive  serpents  crawl,  the  air  is  full 
Of  loathsome  insects,  and  along  these  banks 
An  agued  people  live  who  have  no  life 
Except  hard  toil,  whose  pleasures  are  the  dance 
Where  violent  liquor  takes  the  gun  or  knife ; 
Who  have  no  inspiration  save  the  orgy 
Of  the  religious  meeting,  where  the  cult 
Of  savage  dreams  is  almost  theirs.     The  towns 
Places  of  filth,  of  maddening  quietude; 
Streets  mired  with  mud,  board  sidewalks  where  the  men, 
Like  chickens  with  the  cholera,  stand  and  squeak 
Foul  or  half-idiot  things ;    near  by  the  churches, 
Mere  arch-ways  to  the  grave-yard.     Nothing  here 
Of  conscious  plan  to  lift  the  spirit  up. 
All  is  defeat  of  liberty  in  spite 
Of  certain  strong  men,  certain  splendid  breeds, 
The  pioneers  who  made  your  state ;  no  beauty 
Save  as  a  soul  delves  in  a  master  book. 
And  out  of  this  your  Lincoln  came,  not  poor 

[54] 


GOBINEAU  TO  TREE 

As  Burns  was  in  a  land  of  stoned  towers, 
But  poor  as  a  degenerate  breed  is  poor 
Sunk  down  in  squalor. 

Yet  he  seems  a  man 

Of  master  qualities.     The  muddy  streets, 
And  melancholy  of  a  pastoral  town, 
And  sights  of  people  sick,  the  stifling  weeds 
Which  grew  about  him  left  his  spirit  clean, 
Save  for  an  ache  that  all  his  youth  was  spent 
In  such  surroundings. 

And  observe  the  man ! 
Do  poverty  and  life  among  such  people 
Make  him  a  libertarian  ?     Let  us  see. 
At  twenty  years  he  is  a  centralist, 
Stands  for  the  bank  which  Andrew  Jackson  fought, 
And  lauds  protection,  thinks  of  Washington 
Much  more  than  Springfield.     That  is  right  I  say  — 
But  call  him  not  a  democrat. 

Look  here ! 

This  master  book  of  Stephens  which  you  sent  me 
Accuses  Lincoln  of  imperial  deeds, 
And  breach  of  laws,  and  rightly  so,  in  truth. 
That  makes  me  love  him,  but  the  end  he  sought 
Is  something  else.     At  first  that  was  the  Union, 
Straight  through  it  was  the  Union,  but  at  last 

[551 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

The  strain  of  Christian  softness  always  his 
Which  filled  him  full  of  hate  for  slavery 
Cropped  out  in  freedom  for  your  negro  slaves, 
Which  was  an  act  of  war,  and  so  confessed, 
Not  propped  by  law,  but  only  by  a  will. 
Thus  he  became  a  man  who  broke  all  law 
To  have  his  law.     He  killed  a  million  men 
For  what  he  called  the  Union,  what  he  thought 
Was  truth  of  Christian  brotherhood.     I  say 
He  killed  a  million  men,  for  it  is  true 
Your  war  had  never  come,  had  he  believed 
All  government  must  rest  in  men's  consent. 
What  have  we  but  a  soul  imperial  ? 
A  brother  to  me,  standing  for  the  strong, 
For  master  races,  blindly  at  the  work 
Of  biologic  mount  ?     The  cells  of  him 
That  make  him  saint  for  radicals  and  dreamers 
Are  but  somatic,  but  the  sperm  of  him 
Will  propagate  great  rulers. 

See  his  face ! 

Its  tragic  pathos  fools  the  idealist  — 
But  study  it.     First,  then,  observe  the  eyes, 
And  tell  me  how  within  their  gaze  events 
Or  men  could  lose  their  true  proportions  !     Here 
No  visions  swarm,  no  dreams  with  flashing  wings 
Throw  light  upon  them.     No,  they  only  look 
Across  a  boundless  prairie,  that  is  all. 


GOBINEAU  TO  TREE 

And  in  that  brow  and  nose  we  see  a  strength 

Slow,  steady,  wary,  cautious  —  why  this  man 

Is  your  conservative,  perhaps  your  best, 

Which  is  one  reason  why  he  loved  the  Union, 

And  even  said  at  last  that  government 

Of  the  people  meant  the  Union  —  how  absurd  !  — 

Would  perish,  if  it  perished,  clearly  false ! 

And  if  'twere  true  would  be  the  better.     Read 

My  Renaissance,  and  other  books,  you'll  see 

How  I'd  protect  the  master  spirits,  keep 

The  master  races  pure ;    how  I  detest 

The  brotherhood  of  man,  how  I  have  shown 

The  falseness  of  these  Galilean  dreams, 

These  syrups  strained  in  secret,  used  to  drug 

The  strong  and  make  them  equal  with  the  weak. 

Such  things  are  of  the  mind  which  weaves  in  space, 

A  penalty  of  thought.     Come  back  to  earth, 

Live  close  to  nature.     Do  not  sap  a  rose 

To  nourish  cabbages,  and  call  it  truth ! 

Well,  then,  your  negro's  freed  !     But  what  of  that  ? 

You  do  not  want  him  for  a  friend  or  spouse. 

I  would  not  see  him  whipped,  or  made  a  bond. 

But  tell  me  what  you're  thinking  of  who  say 

His  freedom  is  a  gain  for  liberty  ? 

To  buy  men's  labor  is  to  buy  their  bodies. 

Your  country  now  has  entered  on  a  course 

Of  buying  labor,  wait  and  see  what  comes ! 

is?] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

I  see  processions  filing  through  your  land. 

They  carry  banners  bearing  Lincoln's  face. 

And  there  are  hordes  who  think  the  kingdom's  coming : 

As  Lincoln  freed  the  slaves,  one  will  arise 

To  free  all  men !     The  signs  before  the  war 

Are  come  again,  portentous  stars  appear 

Which  prophesied  the  war !     All  revolutions 

Are  so  announced,  the  world  is  rising  higher 

Through  ordered  revolutions,  preordained  ! 

Well,  certain  men  look  at  these  mad  processions 

From  well-protected  windows,  with  a  smile  — 

They  are  your  millionaires,  they  think  they  know 

The  soul  of  Lincoln  better  than  the  crowds 

That  carry  banners  with  his  picture  on  them. 

Yes,  all  they  have  they  owe  to  Lincoln,  they 

Grew  strong  through  Lincoln. 

But  are  you  content 

To  have  your  negroes  free,  and  millionaires 
In  mastership  of  your  republic  ?     Where 
Are  men  to  overlord  your  millionaires  ?     You  know 
Out  of  the  eater  comes  forth  meat,  who  will 
Exhaust  the  strength  of  those  whose  strength  was  gained 
From  blood  of  boys  shed  on  the  battle  field  ? 
What  can  you  do  to  have  a  Renaissance 
That  with  a  terrible  light  will  drive  to  covert 
Owls,  bats,  and  mousing  hawks,  that  neither  know 
What  life  is,  whence  they  come,  nor  what  they  are, 

[58] 


GOBINEAU  TO  TREE 

Who  live  by  superstition,  codes  of  slaves, 

Fear  truth,  are  weak,  and  only  hunger  know  — 

You  must  have  such  a  Renaissance  or  die 

While  slipping  smugly,  self  sufficiently 

Along  a  way  unvisioned,  while  you  play 

The  hypocrite  as  it  was  never  played 

In  any  place,  in  any  time  on  earth ! 

These  things  I  see.     But  let  me  in  conclusion 

Point  to  your  Lincoln  as  a  man  who  makes 

For  power  and  beauty  in  your  country,  call  it 

Republic  if  you  will,  the  name  is  nothing. 

I  say  the  vitalest  force  is  love,  not  hate. 

I  say  that  all  great  souls  are  lovers,  but  of  what  ? 

Why,  what  great  Goethe  loved  !     Your  master  men 

Should  learn  of  Goethe,  hold  the  crowd  through  him. 

And  Lincoln  was  a  lover,  but  of  what  ? 

Well  not  the  cesspool  of  the  black  man's  slavery. 

He  loved  the  mathematics  of  high  truths, 

And  heightened  spirituality,  that's  the  reason 

Only  a  man  like  me  can  know  him,  that's 

The  reason  that  your  crude  American  thought 

Misses  the  man. 


[59] 


OLD   PIERY 

I  had  a  paying  little  refinery 

And  all  was  well  with  me,  and  then 

The  Trust  edged  up  to  me  and  wiped  me  out. 

So  much  for  northern  tariff,  freedom 

Of  niggers  and  New  England  rule. 

Praise  God  for  sponging  slavery  from  the  Slate ! 

Well,  then  I  was  without  a  cent  again, 

What  should  I  do  ?     I  wanted  first  a  change, 

And  rest  in  the  use  of  other  faculties, 

So  I  went  out  and  took  a  farm. 

One  thing  leads  to  another.     I  wake  up  one  morning 

And  find  a  man  from  Illinois 

Become  my  neighbor  on  the  adjoining  farm. 

It's  your  John  Cogdall,  once  of  Petersburg, 

County  of  Menard,  in  Illinois, 

Precinct  Indian  Point,  he  said  to  me. 

We're  friends  at  once,  and  visit  back  and  forth. 

Two  months  ago  I  saw  upon  his  table 

A  copy  of  the  Petersburg  Observer  — 

John  likes  to  hear  the  home-town  news  — 

I  pick  it  up  and  scan  it  through  to  see 

What  a  country  paper  is  in  Illinois. 

[60] 


OLD  PIERY 

And  there  I  read  this  notice  of  "Old  Piery," 
Real  name  Cordelia  Stacke,  dead  thirty  years, 
Whose  money  in  the  county  treasury 
Is  to  be  made  escheat.     So  here  I  am 
Maneuvering  for  this  money,  rather  shabby 
If  I  was  not  so  devilish  poor  and  pressed ; 
If  letting  Menard  County  have  the  prize 
Would  profit  any  one,  when  I  can  prove 
Old  Piery  was  my  great  aunt, 
Her  father  and  my  grandfather  brothers, 
When  I  can  prove  that  I'm  her  only  heir. 

Yes,  but  not  as  pure  of  blood. 

Her  father  was  a  judge  in  South  Carolina, 

Her  mother  was  a  belle  of  New  Orleans, 

My  father  told  me  so.     Cordelia  Stacke, 

"Old  Piery,"  as  you  called  her,  was  a  story 

We  heard  as  children  sitting  on  his  knee. 

I  know  to  prove  my  name  is  Stacke, 

And  then  because  her  name  was  Stacke 

Won't  draw  this  money  from  your  treasury, 

But  wait 

Go  to  your  vault  and  get  that  ring  she  wore, 

Slipped  from  her  dead  hand  when  you  found  her  body 

Dead  for  a  week  amid  her  rags  and  stuff. 

Go  get  that  ring,  Mr.  Treasurer  of  Menard, 

If  I  don't  describe  it 

Down  to  the  finest  point, 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

Just  as  I  heard  my  father  say 

The  night  she  disappeared  she  wore  a  ring 

Of  such  and  such,  I'll  go  back  to  my  farm 

In  Mississippi.     But  I'll  do  much  more 

I'll  trace  her  from  Columbia  to  Old  Salem ; 

I'll  show  her  crazed  brain  luring  her  along 

To  find  the  spot  where  Lincoln  kept  the  store 

Two  miles  from  where  we  sit. 

She  must  have  walked 

Across  Virginia,  West  Virginia, 

Ohio,  Indiana,  or  perhaps 

She  footed  it  through  Tennessee,  Kentucky. 

I  talked  this  morning  with  your  county  judge. 

He  said  she  came  here  late  in  '65 

Or  early  '66, 

Was  seen  by  farmers  near  the  Salem  Mill, 

A  loitering,  mumbling  woman, 

Not  old,  but  looking  old,  and  aging  fast 

As  she  became  a  figure  in  your  streets 

And  alleys  with  a  gunny-sack  on  back, 

Wherein  she  stuffed  old  bottles,  paper,  things 

She  picked  industriously  and  stored  away. 

Would  buy  a  bit  of  cold  food  at  the  baker's. 

Sometimes  would  sit  on  door  steps  eating  cake, 

Which  friendly  hands  had  given  her,  then  depart 

And  say,  "God  rest  your  souls !"     Attended  mass 

On  Sunday  mornings,  knew  no  one 

[62] 


OLD  PIERY 

And  had  no  friends. 

In  '69  was  found  incompetent, 

And  placed  in  charge  of  a  conservator. 

Then  as  she  was  not  dangerous  went  ahead 

At  picking  rags, 

Until  in  '97  passed  away. 

Such  was  the  life  and  death  of  a  fine  girl, 

The  daughter  of  a  judge  in  South  Carolina 

And  a  belle  of  New  Orleans. 

And  after  life  at  best  knew  life  at  worst, 

Beginning  in  a  southern  capitol 

Where  she  knew  riches,  admiration,  place, 

She  ended  up  in  Petersburg,  Illinois, 

A  little  croaking,  mad  but  harmless  waif, 

A  withered  leaf  stirred  by  the  Lincoln  storm. 

And  here's  my  guess  : 

The  fancy  of  her  madness  brought  her  here 

To  see  the  country  where 

The  man  who  was  a  laborer,  kept  a  store, 

Could  rise  therefrom, 

And  bring  such  desolation  to  the  South, 

Such  sorrow  to  herself,  that  is  my  guess. 

The  name's  Cordelia  Stacke  inside  this  ring 
You  tell  me.     She's  the  same  no  doubt. 
We  all  lived  in  Columbia  when  the  troops 
Of  Sherman  whirled  upon  us  to  the  sea. 

[63] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

I  was  a  year  old  then.     We  were  burned  out, 

Lost  everything. 

The  troops  came  howling,  plundering, 

And  tossing  combustible  chemicals. 

They  butchered  just  for  sport  our  cattle ; 

Split  chests  and  cabinets  with  savage  axes ; 

Walked  with  their  hob-nailed  boots  on  our  pianos ; 

Ran  bayonets  through  pictures ; 

Rode  horses  in  our  parlors ; 

Broke  open  trunks  and  safes  ; 

Searched  cellars,  opened  graves  for  hoarded  gold, 

And  yelled  "You  dirty  rebels  now  we've  got  you." 

They  filled  their  bellies  up  with  wine  and  whisky, 

And  drunken,  howling  through  Columbia's  streets 

They  carried  vases,  goblets,  silver,  gold, 

And  rolled  about  with  pockets  full  of  loot, 

And  then  at  last  they  stuck  the  torch  to  us 

And  made  a  bon-fire  of  our  city. 

Cordelia  had  a  lover  who  was  killed 
At  Antietam  fighting,  not  for  niggers, 
But  fighting  back  the  fools  who  had  been  crazed 
By  preachers,  poets,  Garrisons  and  Whittiers 
Who  thought  they  worked  for  freedom,  but  instead 
Worked  for  New  England's  tariff  —  look  at  me 
How  could  the  trust  destroy  me  if  the  tariff 
Put  no  bricks  in  the  bully's  boxing  gloves  ? 
Well,  then,  Cordelia  lost  her  lover, 


OLD  PIERY 

And  when  the  troops  came  was  a  novitiate 

Nun  at  the  convent.     And  the  soldiers  came 

To  say  the  convent  would  be  spared.     But  when 

The  flames  arose,  she  ran  into  the  city 

To  be  beside  her  father  and  her  mother. 

And  she  arrived 

Just  as  the  soldiers  entered  the  house  for  loot. 

Her  mother  was  in  bed  half  dead  from  fright, 

Not  well  at  best. 

The  soldiers  broke  the  bedroom  door, 

And  howled  for  treasure.     When  the  mother  said 

There  was  no  treasure,  then  they  took  her 

And  flung  her  from  the  bed,  ripped  up  the  matress, 

Raked  pictures  from  the  walls,  and  smashed  the  mirrors, 

Tore  closets  open,  then  went  to  the  cellar 

Leaving  the  mother  lying  on  the  floor, 

Who  lay  as  dead. 

They  drank  what  wine  they  found, 

Then  seized  the  father,  hung  him  to  a  tree 

To  make  him  tell  where  he  kept  money  hidden. 

The  mother  died  in  two  days  from  the  fright. 

The  father  was  not  killed,  they  took  him  down, 

And  went  their  way  carousing,  yelling  out 

"You  dirty  rebels  now  we've  got  you  fair." 

Cordelia  thought  no  doubt  that  both  were  dead. 

A  passerby  beheld  her  on  the  lawn 

Her  hair  let  down  and  plucking  at  her  dress. 

But  who  could  stop  to  help  her  in  that  hell 

F  [6S] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

Of  a  city  burning  and  the  howls  and  shouts, 
And  falling  walls  ? 

Cordelia  disappeared  and  from  that  night 
Was  never  seen  or  heard  of.     To  his  death 
Her  father  thought  she  met  a  terrible  fate : 
Was  raped  and  slaughtered. 

So  you  see 

All  of  this  put  together  tells  the  story 
Of  this  poor  creature  whom  you  called  "Old  Piery." 
But  let  me  add  Cordelia  had  a  horse 
She  called" Old  Piery"  —  that  fits  in  my  proof. 
That's  why  she  named  herself  "Old  Piery"  here, 
And  gave  your  boys  and  girls  a  mocking  name 
To  hail  her  with  as  she  went  up  your  alleys ; 
With  which  to  rap  the  windows  of  her  room, 
Where  bottles,  cans,  waste  rags,  and  copper  things, 
Old  hoops  of  iron,  staves,  old  boots  and  shoes, 
Springs,  wheels  of  clocks,  and  locks  of  broken  guns, 
Old  boards  and  boxes,  stacks  of  paper  waste 
Stuffed  up  the  place,  and  where  unknown  to  all 
Paper  and  silver  money  hid  in  cracks 
Between  the  leaves  of  fouled  and  rain-soaked  books, 
Or  packed  in  jars  were  kept  by  her.     You  see 
Her  mind  was  turned  to  treasure,  hiding  it 
Against  the  soldiers  maybe,  in  this  land 
Where  Lincoln  was  a  laborer,  farmer,  kept 
A  store  at  Salem. 

[66] 


OLD  PIERY 

Well  I  say 

God  rest  her  soul,  as  she  was  used  to  say. 
I  want  to  raise  a  stone  to  mark  her  grave, 
And  carve  her  name  below  a  broken  heart. 
For  listen  now :  the  ring  Cordelia  wore 
Was  just  a  little  band  of  gold  and  set 
With  a  cornelian  heart  —  am  I  not  right  ? 
I  knew  I  was. 


THE  TYPICAL  AMERICAN? 

He  calls  himself  an  American  citizen  — 

And  yet  among  such  various  breeds  of  men 

Who'll  call  him  typical  ?     At  any  rate 

His  faults  or  virtues  one  may  predicate 

Somewhat  as  follows  :   He  is  sent  to  school 

Little  or  much,  where  he  imbibes  the  rule 

Of  safety  first  and  comfort ;   in  his  youth 

He  joins  the  church  and  ends  the  quest  of  truth. 

Beyond  the  pages  of  theology 

He  does  not  turn,  he  does  not  seem  to  see 

How  hunger  makes  these  Occidental  creeds 

Sweet  foliage  on  which  the  stomach  feeds. 

Like  those  thick  tussock  moths  upon  the  bole 

Of  a  great  beech  tree,  feed  the  human  soul 

And  it  will  use  the  food  for  gold  and  power ! 

So  men  have  used  Christ  Jesus'  tender  flower, 

And  garnered  it  for  porridge,  opiates, 

And  made  it  flesh  of  customs  laws  and  states 

Where  life  repeats  itself  after  a  plan 

And  breeds  the  typical  American  — 

As  he  regards  himself. 

Our  man  matures 

And  enters  business,  following  the  lures 
[681 


THE  TYPICAL  AMERICAN? 

Of  great  increase  in  business,  more  receipts  — 
Upon  this  object  center  all  his  wits. 
And  greater  crops  make  needful  larger  barns, 
Vainly  the  parable  of  Jesus  warns. 
His  soul  is  now  required,  is  taken  away 
From  living  waters,  in  a  little  day 
Thrift,  labor  dooms  him,  leaves  him  banqueting 
Where  nothing  nourishes,  they  are  the  sting 
Which  deadens  him  and  casts  him  down  at  last 
Fly  blown  or  numb  or  lifeless  in  this  vast 
Surrounding  air  of  Vital  Power,  where  God 
Like  the  great  sun,  invites  the  wayside  clod 
To  live  at  full. 

In  time  our  hero  weds 
A  woman  like  himself,  and  little  heads 
Soon  run  about  a  house  or  pleasant  yard. 
He  must  work  now  to  keep  them  —  have  regard 
To  the  community,  its  thoughts  and  ways. 
What  church  is  here  ?     He  finds  it  best  to  praise 
Its  pastor  and  its  flock,  his  children  send 
To  Sunday  school,  if  never  he  attend 
Its  services.     What  politics  obtain  ? 
He  must  support  the  tussock  leaf  campaigns 
If  he  would  eat  himself.     'Tis  best  to  join 
The  party  which  controls  the  greater  coin. 
And  so  what  is  his  party's  interest 
In  business  ?     There  must  his  soul  invest 

[69] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

Its  treasure  till  the  two  are  wholly  one. 

Like  the  poor  prostitute  he  is  undone 

In  virtue  not  alone,  but  he  has  made 

Himself  a  cog-wheel  in  the  filthy  trade 

Of  justice  courts,  police  and  graft  in  wine 

Bondsmen  and  lawyers  with  a  strength  malign 

Moving  the  silken  vestured  marionette 

To  laugh,  entice  and  play  the  sad  coquette. 

Yet  if  for  bread  you  are  compelled  to  ask 

The  giver  may  impose  an  evil  task, 

Or  terms  of  life.     Would  you  retain  a  roof, 

Mix  with  the  crowd,  nor  dare  to  stand  aloof. 

Our  hero  sees  this,  wears  a  hopeful  smile 

To  cover  up  his  spattered  soul,  and  while 

Digesting  wounded  truth,  hiding  his  thought, 

His  own  opinions,  for  his  soul  is  caught 

Amid  the  idiot  hands  that  strike  and  press  — 

One  may  glide  through  who  learns  to  say  yes,  yes, 

While  in  heart-sickness  whispering  to  himself : 

I  do  this  for  the  children,  and  for  pelf 

To  keep  the  house  and  yard,  the  cupboard  full. 

Some  time  I  hope  to  free  myself  and  pull 

My  legs  out  of  this  social  muck  and  mire. 

First  money  is,  then  freedom  his  desire, 

But  often  neither  comes.     If  he  win  wealth 

He  has  become  lead-poisoned,  for  by  stealth 

The  virus  of  the  colors  which  he  used 

To  paint  his  life  is  spread  and  interfused 

[70] 


THE  TYPICAL  AMERICAN? 

In  every  vein.     By  ways  complaisant 
Our  hero  has  got  gold  from  ignorant 
Vulgarian  nondescripts,  has  entertained 
The  odorous  cormorants,  and  has  profaned 
His  household  gods  to  keep  them  safe  and  whole 
Upon  the  altar  —  winning  what  a  goal ! 
For  meantime  in  this  living  he  has  schooled 
His  children  in  the  precepts  which  have  ruled 
His  days  from  the  beginning.     They  are  bred 
His  out-look  to  repeat,  and  even  to  tread 
The  way  he  went  amid  the  tangled  wood 
In  their  own  time  and  chosen  neighborhood. 
What  has  our  hero  done  ?     Why  nothing  more 
Than  feed  upon  the  beech  leaves,  gather  store 
For  children  moths  to  feed  on,  and  get  strength 
To  climb  the  branches  and  on  leaves  at  length 
To  feed  of  their  own  will. 

Is  this  a  man  ? 
Is  this  your  typical  American  ? 


[71] 


COME,   REPUBLIC 

Come !  United  States  of  America, 
And  you  one  hundred  million  souls,  O  Republic, 
Throw  out  your  chests,  lift  up  your  heads, 
And  walk  with  a  soldier's  stride. 
Quit  burning  up  for  money  alone. 
Quit  slouching  and  dawdling, 
And  dreaming  and  moralising. 
Quit  idling  about  the  streets,  like  the  boy 
In  the  village,  who  pines  for  the  city. 
Root  out  the  sinister  secret  societies, 
And  the  clans  that  stick  together  for  office, 
And  the  good  men  who  care  nothing  for  liberty, 
But  would  run  you,  0  Republic,  as  a  household  is  run. 
It  is  time,  Republic,  to  get  some  class, 
It  is  time  to  harden  your  muscles, 
And  to  clear  your  eyes  in  the  cold  water  of  Reality, 
And  to  tighten  your  nerves. 
It  is  time  to  think  what  Nature  means, 
And  to  consult  Nature, 
When  your  soul,  as  you  call  it,  calls  to  you 
To  follow  principle ! 

It  is  time  to  snuff  out  the  A.  D.  Bloods. 

[72] 


COME,  REPUBLIC 

It  is  time  to  lift  yourself,  O  Republic, 
From  the  street  corners  of  Spoon  River. 

Do  you  wish  to  survive, 

And  to  count  in  the  years  to  come  ? 

Then  do  what  the  plow-boys  did  in  sixty-one, 

Who  left  the  fields  for  the  camp, 

And  tightened  their  nerves  and  hardened  their  arms 

Till  the  day  they  left  the  camp  for  the  fields 

The  bravest,  readiest,  clearest-eyed 

Straight-walking  men  in  the  world, 

And  symbolical  of  a  Republic 

That  is  worthy  the  name ! 

If  you,  Republic,  had  kept  the  faith 
Of  a  culture  all  your  own, 
And  a  spiritual  independence, 
And  a  freedom  large  and  new. 
If  you  had  not  set  up  a  Federal  judge  in  China, 
And  scrambled  for  place  in  the  Orient, 
And  stolen  the  Philippine  Islands, 
And  mixed  in  the  business  of  Europe, 
Three  thousand  miles  of  water  east, 
And  seven  thousand  west 
Had  kept  your  hands  untainted,  free 
For  a  culture  all  your  own  ! 

But  while  you  were  fumbling,   and  while  you   were 
dreaming 

[73] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

As  the  boy  in  the  village  dreams  of  the  city 

You  were  doing  something  worse : 

You  were  imitating ! 

You  came  to  the  city  and  aped  the  swells, 

And  tried  to  enter  their  set ! 

You  strained  your  Fate  to  their  fate, 

And  borrowed  the  mood  to  live  their  life ! 

And  here  you  are  in  the  game,  Republic, 

But  not  prepared  to  play  ! 

But  you  did  it. 

And  the  water  east  and  water  west 

Are  no  longer  your  safeguard  : 

They  are  now  your  danger  and  difficulty  ! 

And  you  must  live  the  life  you  started  to  imitate 

In  spite  of  these  perilous  waters. 

For  they  keep  you  now  from  being  neutral  — 

For  you  are  not  neutral,  Republic, 

You  only  pretend  to  be. 

You  are  not  free,  independent,  brave, 

You  are  shackled,  cowardly 

For  what  could  happen  to  you  overnight 

In  the  Orient, 

If  you  stood  with  your  shoulders  up, 

And  were  Neutral ! 

Suppose  you  do  it,  Republic. 
Get  some  class, 

[74] 


COME,  REPUBLIC 

Throw  out  your  chest,  lift  up  your  head, 

Be  a  ruler  in  the  world, 

And  not  a  hermit  in  regimentals  with  a  flint-lock. 

Colossus  with  one  foot  in  Europe, 

And  one  in  China, 

Quit  looking  between  your  legs  for  the  re-appearance 

Of  the  star  of  Bethlehem  — 

Stand  up  and  be  a  man ! 


[75 


PAST  AND   PRESENT 

Past  midnight !     Vastly  overhead 
A  wash  of  stars  —  the  town's  asleep  ! 
And  through  the  pine  trees  of  the  dead 
The  rising  winds  of  morning  creep. 

Dim,  mid  the  hillside's  shadow  grass 
I  count  the  marble  slabs.  How  vain 
My  throbbing  life  that  waits  to  pass 
Into  the  great  world  on  the  train ! 

The  city's  vision  fades  from  mind. 
I  only  see  the  hill  and  sky ; 
And  on  the  mist  that  rides  the  wind 
A  tottering  pageant  meets  my  eye. 

The  cock  crows  faintly,  far  away ; 
A  troop  of  age  and  grief  appears. 
Ye  shadows  of  a  distant  day. 
What  do  ye,  pioneers  ? 

There  shines  the  engine's  comet  light. 
Ye  shadows  of  a  century  set, 
Haste  to  the  hillside  and  the  night  — 
I  am  not  of  you  yet ! 

[76] 


ROBERT  G.   INGERSOLL 

To  the  lovers  of  Liberty  everywhere, 

But  chiefly  to  the  youth  of  America 

Who  did  not  know  Robert  G.  Ingersoll, 

Remember  that  he  helped  to  make  you  free ! 

He  was  a  leader  in  a  war  of  guns  for  freedom, 

But  a  general  in  the  war  of  ideas  for  freedom ! 

He  braved  the  misunderstanding  of  friends, 

He  faced  the  enmity  of  the  powerful  small  of  soul, 

And  the  insidious  power  of  the  churches ; 

He  put  aside  worldly  honours, 

And  the  sovereignty  of  place, 

He  stripped  off  the  armor  of  institutional  friendships 

To  dedicate  his  soul 

To  the  terrible  deities  of  Truth  and  Beauty !  ! 

And  he  went  down  into  age  and  into  the  shadow 

With  love  of  men  for  a  staff, 

And  the  light  of  his  soul  for  a  light  — 

And  with  these  alone ! 

0  you  martyrs  trading  martyrdom  for  heaven, 
And  self-denial  for  eternal  riches, 

How  does  your  work  and  your  death  compare 
With  a  man's  for  whom  the  weal  of  the  race, 
And  the  cause  of  humanity  here  and  now  were  enough 
To  give  life  meaning  and  death  as  well  ?  — 

1  have  not  seen  such  faith  in  Israel ! 

[77] 


AT  HAVANA 

I  met  a  fisherman  at  Havana  once, 

Havana  on  the  Illinois,  I  mean, 

There  by  the  house  and  fish  boats.     He  was  burned 

The  color  of  an  acorn,  and  his  hair 

Was  coarse  as  a  horse's  tail.     His  scraggy  hands 

Looked  like  thick  bands  of  weather-colored  copper, 

But  his  eyes  were  blue  as  faded  gingham  is. 

I  stood  amid  the  smell  of  scales  and  heads, 

And  fishes'  entrails  dumped  along  the  sand. 

The  still  air  was  a  burning  glass  which  focused 

A  bon-fire  sun  right  through  my  leghorn  hat ; 

And  a  black  fly  from  crannies  of  the  air 

Lit  on  my  hand  and  bit  it  venomously. 

Across  the  yellow  river  lay  the  bottoms 

Where  giant  sycamores  and  elms  overtopped 

A  jungle  of  disgusting  weeds.     The  breeze 

Hot  as  a  tropic  breath  exhaled  the  reek 

Of  baking  mud  and  of  those  noisome  weeds, 

Wherewith  the  odors  of  putrescent  fish 

Mixed  on  the  simmering  sands.     A  naturalist 

Must  seek  the  habitat  of  the  life  he  studies.  .  .  . 

There  on  a  platform  lay  the  dressed  fish,  carp, 

Black-bass,  and  pike  and  pickerel,  buffalo, 

[78] 


AT  HAVANA 

Cat-fish,  which  I  had  come  to  see,  and  talk 

With  fishermen  along  the  Illinois. 

My  man  held  up  a  fish  and  said  to  me ; 

"  Here  is  the  bastard  who  drives  all  the  fish 

Out  of  the  river,  out  of  any  water 

He  comes  in,  and  he  comes  wherever  food 

Can  be  obtained  ;   the  black-bass,  even  cat-fish, 

And  all  the  good  stocks  run  away  from  him, 

He  is  so  hoggish,  plaguy,  and  so  mean. 

The  other  fish  may  try  to  live  with  him, 

I'm  thinking  sometimes,  anyway  I  know 

He  drives  the  others  out."     I  looked  to  see 

What  fish  is  so  unfriendly  to  his  fellows. 

"Just  look  at  him,"  he  said,  but  as  he  spoke 

The  black  fly  stung  my  hand  again.     When  I 

Looked  up  from  swatting  him,  the  man  had  thrown 

The  fish  upon  the  sand,  and  a  stray  dog 

Was  running  off  with  him  along  the  river. 


[79] 


THE  MOURNER'S   BENCH 

They're  holding  a  revival  at  New  Hope  Meeting  house, 
I  can't  keep  from  going,  I  ought  to  stay  away. 
For  I  come  home  and  toss  in  bed  till  day, 
For  thinking  of  my  sin,  and  the  trouble  I  am  in. 
I  dream  I  hear  the  dancers 
In  the  steps  and  swings, 
The  quadrilles  and  the  lancers 
They  danced  at  Revis  Springs. 
I  lie  and  think  of  Charley,  Charley,  Charley 
The  Bobtown  dandy 
Who  had  his  way  with  me. 
And  no  one  is  so  handy 
A  dancer  as  Charley 
To  Little  Drops  of  Brandy, 
Or  the  Wind  that  Shakes  the  Barley, 
Or   Good    mornin'   Uncle   Johnny   I've    fetched   your 
Wagon  Home. 

And  Greenberry  Atterberry,  who  toed  it  like  a  pigeon 

Has  gone  and  got  religion ; 

He's  deserted  the  dancers,  the  fiddlers,  merry-makers, 

And  I  should  do  it  too. 

For  Charley,  Charley  has  left  me  for  to  roam. 

[go] 


THE  MOURNER'S  BENCH 

But  a  woman  at  the  mourner's  bench  must  tell  her  story 

true  — 
What  shall  I  do  ?     What  shall  I  do  ? 

My  grandmother  told  me  of  Old  Peter  Cartwright 

Who  preached  hell-fire 

And  the  worm  that  never  dies. 

And  here's  a  young  preacher  at  the  New  Hope  Meeting 
house, 

And  every  one  allows,  he  has  old  Peter's  brows, 

And  flaming  of  the  eyes, 

And  the  very  same  way,  they  say. 

Last  night  he  stuck  his  finger  right  down  in  my  direc 
tion, 

And  said  :    "  God  doesn't  care 

For  your  woman's  hair. 

Jesus  wants  to  know  if  your  soul  is  fair 

As  your  woman's  complexion." 

And  then  I  thought  he  knew  — 

O  what  shall  I  do  ? 

Greenberry  Atterberry,  weeping  and  unsteady 
Had  left  his  seat  already. 

He  stood  at  the  mourner's  bench  in  great  tribulation 
And  told  the  congregation : 
That  fiddling  and  dancing  and  tobacco  chewin' 
Led  up  to  whisky  and  to  woman's  ruin  — 
And  I  thought  he  looked  at  me. 
G  [81] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

Well,  you  can  stop  dancing,  and  you  can  stop  drinking 
And  you  can  leave  the  quarter-horses  at  the  crooked 

races. 

But  a  woman,  a  woman,  the  people  will  be  thinking 
Forever  of  a  woman  who  confesses  her  behavior. 
And  then  I  couldn't  look  in  the  people's  faces, 
All  weeping  and  singing,  O  gentle  Saviour ! 
Then  the  devil  said  :   You  wench 
You'd  cut  a  pretty  figure  at  the  mourner's  bench, 
Go  out  and  look  for  Charley, 
Go  out  and  look  for  Charley, 
He's  down  at  Leese's  Grove. 
He  has  found  a  fresh  love 
Go  win  him  back  again. 
He  is  dancing  on  the  platform  to  the  Speckled  Hen. 

O  Saviour,  Saviour,  how  can  I  join  the  mourners, 

Face  all  the  scorners  ? 

But  how  can  I  hunt  Charley  at  Leese's  Grove  ? 

How  can  I  stand  the  staring,  the  whispering  of  things 

Down  at  Revis  Springs  ? 

How  can  I  stand  the  mocking  of  the  fiddle  strings  ? 

Charley !     Charley ! 

So  it's  knowing  what's  best  to  do, 

Saviour !     Saviour ! 

Its  knowing  what's  best  to  do ! 


THE   BAY-WINDOW 

She  sat  at  a  bay-window  where  she  saw 

First  open  carriages  and  buggies  pass ! 

And  then  Victorias  with  horses  docked 

And  bits  and  buckles,  chains  of  shining  brass. 

And  then  the  horseless  carriage,  till  at  last 

The  swallow-gleam  of  varnished  limousines 

Silent  as  shadows  took  her  lifted  eye, 

Uplifted  from  a  book.     She  always  sat 

In  her  bay-window  with  a  book, 

And  with  a  tinted  fan  in  summer-time. 

But  first  she  was  a  bride 

Before  the  war. 

Springing  from  honest  blood,  her  place 

Passed  over  lightly  as  her  grandeur  grew : 

She  was  of  seed  too  vital  to  decay 

Wholly  in  any  soil,  the  sort  that  grows  and  blooms 

Where  never  gardener  comes. 

And  this  bay-window !    An  aging  man  of  gold 

Had  plucked  her  up,  and  here  she  rests  and  breathes 

The  free  air  of  Chicago's  reclamation. 

And  then  she  is 

A  wonder-bride  for  her  brown  hair, 

[83] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

And  gray-blue  eyes,  and  laughter,  sunny  wit, 
And  naturally  patrician  ways  and  speech, 
(Acquiring  French  now  that  the  chance  has  come), 
And  she  is  eighteen  and  is  born  to  rule. 

And  her  great  merchant  husband  with  blue  eyes, 

And  strong  beaked  English  nose, 

Walks  straighter  for  a  pride  that  she  is  his. 

Gives  her  a  country  place  spaced  out  in  walks, 

And  flower  beds,  where  now  such  flimsy  flats 

Confront  Grand  Boulevard  ! 

And  for  a  city  house  he  builds  a  house 

Three  stories  high  at  Twentieth  street, 

Where  then  the  manifest  was  sand  and  oaks, 

And  what  is  now  the  Loop,  was  just  as  far 

As  Hyde  Park  from  the  Loop  is  now. 

In  this  bay-window  then  she  sits  a  bride, 

And  sees  the  scrub  oak  cut  and  mansions  fill 

Gradually  year  by  year  the  waste  of  sand. 

For  fashion  follows  her  and  builds  beside  her, 

Till  Prairie  Avenue  becomes  the  street 

Of  millionaires,  who  hear  from  traveled  wives 

What  London  is,  what  Paris  is, 

And  open  purses  to  unfolding  tastes 

For  canvases  and  sculpture. 

For  every  one  grows  rich  now  in  Chicago. 

And  in  the  seventies  women  go  to  Paris, 


THE  BAY-WINDOW 

Herself  among  the  first,  at  least  the  chief, 

See  Egypt  and  see  Rome. 

And  when  returned  drive  down  where  wondering  eyes 

Along  the  marble  terrace  promenading, 

Where  Michigan  Avenue  was  bounded  by 

The  Lake  across  the  street, 

Behold  the  striped  silk  of  their  parasols 

Fluttering  over  plumes  and  dancing  eyes, 

And  purple  velvet  of  Victorias. 

For  now  it  is  the  classic  age ! 

There  is  the  driving  park, 

There  is  the  Palmer  House, 

There  are  cathedrals  too. 

There  are  the  lofty  ceilings  walnut  trimmed, 

And  foliate  chandeliers  of  polished  brass, 

And  marble-slabbed  buffets  with  heavy  cupids, 

And  clustered  fruits  carved  in  their  sombre  wood, 

And  square  pianos  with  their  rosewood  legs 

Swelled  out  with  oval  figures  like  great  plums. 

And  paintings  deeply  daubed  in  brown  asphaltum 

Where  chiaroscuro  ends  were  lost  in  shadows, 

Not  lost  in  light,  depressionistic  things, 

From  which  her  lambent  intuition  led  her. 

She  was  among  the  first  to  catch  the  psychic 

Waves  that  sweep  around  this  little  world 

And  change  all  things. 

She  traveled  much  and  lived  in  Europe  much, 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

Returning  to  her  window  where  she  watched 
The  city  pass  and  bow  its  admiration, 
The  half  of  whom  she  knew  as  time  went  on, 
Though  all  knew  her  and  said  "  there  is  the  queen," 
Or  "there  she  is  who  thinks  she  is  the  queen." 

And  when  the  opera  came  she  was  the  queen, 

At  least  a  queen  whose  sovereignty  withstood 

Encroaching  claims  to  ripen  into  rights. 

But  then  if  all  were  lost  where  not  a  million 

People  lived  as  yet,  and  where,  oh  well 

Packers  and  others  threw  their  heavier  gold 

In  what  was  once  a  scale  of  primogeniture, 

Rome  stood  and  London  stood  and  Paris. 

Have  your  own  way  at  home,  the  mood  began, 

I  am  off  here  where  you  can  scarcely  come. 

The  next  place  is  the  best,  a  far  off  place 

Has  teasing  witcheries  to  those  at  home. 

Her  husband  now  was  dead  some  years,  the  children 

Grown  up,  or  off  to  school,  a  daughter  married 

To  an  Italian  count  kept  state  in  Florence 

Where  Browning  came,  with  whom  our  queen  would 

fence 

In  spiritual  dialectics.     In  her  travels 
She  had  known  Ibsen,  Patti  and  George  Eliot, 
Sat  as  a  dinner  guest  by  Beaconsfield, 
And  taken  tea  upon  Hawarden's  lawn. 
And  so  in  escritoires  and  cabinets 

[861 


THE   BAY-WINDOW 

She  kept  mementoes  of  her  days  abroad  : 

Like  letters  from  George  Eliot, 

"Ferishtah's  Fancies"  inscribed  by  Robert. 

And  in  the  course  of  time  this  three-floored  house 

Was  filled  with  treasures,  tapestries, 

Etruscan  things,  and  farence  peacock  blue. 

And  oriental  jade  with  letters  of  gold. 

And  there  she  reigned,  but  lived  alone 

The  house  kept  by  French  maids 

And  impeccable  butlers. 

And  so  the  years  went,  and  she  saw  at  last 

The  city  start  to  slip  away  from  her 

And  make  her  royal  isolation 

An  ignorant  solitude ! 

Yet  she  was  beautiful  at  forty  years, 

Some  years  a  widow  then  and  very  rich. 

She  was  most  fresh  and  matronly  at  fifty. 

At  fifty-five  and  sixty  she  could  charm 

A  man  of  any  age.     And  master-men 

Paid  suit  to  her  and  gained 

The  stimulating  richness  of  her  mind. 

Some  said  they  did  not  want  her,  others  said 

Her  wisdom  and  self-mastery  froze  their  hearts. 

But  when  she  spoke  she  said  she  could  not  change 

The  name  she  loved,  or  change  her  place  in  life 

To  forced  forgetfulness  of  that  English  face, 

Who  lifted  up  her  life  from  some  obscurity 

[87] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

And  made  it  flower. 

At  any  rate  she  lived  for  forty  years 

With  only  maids  and  butlers  in  a  house 

Round  which  the  warring  city  crept, 

Until  at  last  the  street  with  lowered  pulse 

Saw  vacant  mansions,  as  the  mob  psychology, 

Which  sways  in  fashion,  brought  an  exodus. 

But  she  knew  no  temptation  to  depart. 

This  was  her  house,  her  center  of  the  world. 

And  when  the  Countess  left  the  Count  she  came 

To  ease  her  mother's  loneliness  —  oh  yes  ! 

Six  months  of  loneliness  was  quite  enough. 

And  then  in  spite  of  everything  she  left, 

Returned  to  Florence  and  her  rascal  count, 

Because  she  could  not  stand  the  loneliness, 

And  saw  ahead  long  years  of  loneliness 

In  some  bay  window  —  no,  it  could  not  be ! 

And  so  she  left  her  mother  sitting  there 

Now  sixty-eight  or  so, 

Who  watched  the  city  pass, 

All  now  the  swallow-gleam  of  limousines, 

And  all  around  her  now  the  boarding  house, 

Or  institutes  for  drunkards,  hideous  blocks 

Of  offices  and  warehouses. 

And  all  her  neighbors  lying  up  in  Rose  Hill. 
Perhaps  a  few  remaining  who  remembered 
All  that  she  was,  could  only  say  to  those 
[881 


THE  BAY-WINDOW 

Who  had  heard  of  her  as  she  was  in  the  eighties, 
And  in  the  nineties : 

"She  was  a  great  woman,  I  can  scarce  explain. 
It  was  this  way :    Chicago  then  was  young. 
Chicago  in  ten  years  is  changed  all  through. 
You  see  it  was  this  way  :   But  then  you  see 
This  great  two  million  thing  has  slipped  away 
From  all  our  hands." 

And  then  perhaps 

A  limousine  would  pass  with  reckless  pridelings 

Coming  from  tea  or  dancing  at  the  Blackstone, 

And  find  their  laughter  shortened  by  her  face 

At  this  bay-window 

Would  say :  "Who's  that  old  woman  at  the  window? 

She  always  has  a  book,  or  has  a  fan." 


MAN  OF  OUR  STREET 

This  Man's  life  had  four  stages  as  I  hear. 

The  first  stage  took  him  through  the  days  of  school 

And  fastened  on  his  name  a  prophecy 

That  he  would  win  success.     The  second  stage 

Took  him  to  thirty  years  while  he  was  fumbling 

The  strings  to  find  the  key  and  play  in  key. 

The  third  stage  marked  discouragement,  departure 

To  speculations  and  to  reconcilement 

That  he  was  born  no  lawyer.     And  the  fourth 

Was  one  of  quietude  and  trivial  days. 

I  knew  him  in  this  fourth  stage  as  a  man 

Emerging  from  a  house  across  the  street 

On  Sunday  mornings  in  silk  hat,  long  coat 

And  bamboo  cane.     When  summer  came  he  donned 

A  flannel  suit  of  gray,  a  panama 

And  gloves  of  tan.     When  winter  came  he  wore 

A  double-breasted  coat  with  lamb's  fur  collar. 

He  had  no  friends,  so  far  as  one  could  see, 

No  membership  in  clubs,  was  never  seen 

Where  men  meet,  or  society  is  gathered. 

Sometimes  he  stopped  to  tell  a  passer-by 

The  day  is  fine,  it's  very  fine,  you're  right, 

In  voice  complaisant.     The  neighbors  knew 

[9°] 


MAN  OF  OUR  STREET 

He  lived  upon  a  little  purse  he  made 
In  compromise  of  some  preposterous  wrong. 
And  people  wondered  how  the  purse  was  lasting, 
And  wondered  how  much  longer  he  could  loaf, 
How  many  seasons  more  he  could  appear 
So  seasonably  attired  and  walk  the  streets 
In  such  velleity,  with  such  vacuous  light 
Grown  steady  in  his  eyes. 

I  love  to  watch 

The  chickens  in  a  barn-yard.     Nothing  else 
Is  quite  so  near  the  human  brood.     You'll  see 
Invariably  a  rooster  stalk  about 
In  aimless  fashion,  moving  here  and  there, 
Picking  at  times  with  dull  inappetence 
At  grains  or  grit,  or  standing  for  a  time 
In  listless  revery.     I  never  saw 
A  man  with  such  resemblance  to  this  rooster 
As  this  man  was. 

At  last  we  had  not  seen 
Our  man  upon  the  street  for  several  days. 
And  some  one  said  he  had  been  very  ill. 
His  wife  had  fears  and  wept  and  said  'twas  hard 
Just  on  the  eve  of  great  success  to  die. 
He  had  thought  out  a  plan,  she  said,  to  win 
Great  trade  in  South  America  for  us. 
Our  State  Department  thought  it  excellent. 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

And  then  one  day  four  doctors  passed  his  door 
For  consultation,  and  the  word  went  round 
Our  man  rebelled  most  piteously  and  said 
He  could  not  die  until  he  had  worked  out 
His  dream  of  South  America.     He  knew 
His  danger,  had  the  doctors  called  to  check 
The  inroads  of  the  peril,  though  the  purse 
Was  growing  slim,  as  we  discovered  later. 

One  noon-time  as  I  came  along  the  street 
Where  twenty  children  laughed  and  followed  me, 
Half  playing  at  their  game,  half  following 
My  banterings  and  idle  talk,  and  asking 
About  the  bundle  underneath  my  arm. 
"It's  nothing  but  a  chicken,  go  away," 
I  said  to  them. 

And  there  across  the  street 
Was  crape  upon  the  door  —  our  man  was  dead, 
And  I  was  carrying  chicken  home  to  boil. 


92 


ACHILLES   DEATHERIDGE 

"Your  name  is  Achilles  Deatheridge  ? 
How  old  are  you,  my  boy  ?" 
"I'm  sixteen  past  and  I  went  to  the  war 
From  Athens,  Illinois." 

"Achilles  Deatheridge,  you  have  done 
A  deed  of  dreadful  note." 
"It  comes  of  his  wearing  a  battered  hat, 
And  a  rusty,  wrinkled  coat." 

"Why  didn't  you  know  how  plain  he  is  ? 
And  didn't  you  ever  hear, 
He  goes  through  the  lines  by  day  or  night 
Like  a  sooty  cannoneer?" 

"You  must  have  been  half  dead  for  sleep, 
For  the  dawn  was  growing  bright." 
"Well,  Captain,  I  had  stood  right  there 
Since  six  o'clock  last  night." 

"I  cocked  my  gun  at  the  swish  of  the  grass 
And  how  am  I  at  fault 
When  a  dangerous  looking  man  won't  stop 
When  a  sentry  hollers  halt?" 
[93l 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

"I  cried  out  halt  and  he  only  smiled 
And  waved  his  hand  like  that. 
Why,  any  Johnnie  could  wear  the  coat 
And  any  fellow  the  hat." 

"I  hollered  halt  again  and  he  stopped 
And  lighted  a  fresh  cigar. 
I  never  noticed  his  shoulder  badge, 
And  I  never  noticed  a  star." 

"  So  you  arrested  him  ?     Well,  Achilles, 
When  you  hear  the  swish  of  the  grass 
If  it's  General  Grant  inspecting  the  lines 
Hereafter  let  him  pass." 


94] 


SLIP  SHOE'LOVEY 

You're  the  cook's  understudy 
A  gentle  idiot  body. 
You  are  slender  like  a  broom 
Weaving  up  and  down  the  room, 
With  your  dirt  hair  in  a  twist 
And  your  left  eye  in  a  mist. 
Never  thinking  never  hopin' 
With  your  wet  mouth  open. 
So  bewildered  and  so  busy 
As  you  scrape  the  dirty  kettles, 
O  Slip  Shoe  Lizzie 
As  you  rattle  with  the  pans. 
There's  a  clatter  of  old  metals, 
O  Slip  Shoe  Lovey, 
As  you  clean  the  milk  cans. 
You're  a  greasy  little  dovey, 
A  laughing  scullery  daughter, 
As  you  slop  the  dish  water, 
So  abstracted  and  so  dizzy, 
0  Slip  Shoe  Lizzie ! 

So  mussy,  little  hussie, 

With  the  china  that  you  break, 

[95] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

And  the  kitchen  in  a  smear 
When  the  bread  is  yet  to  bake, 
And  the  market  things  are  here  — 
O  Slip  Shoe  Lovey ! 

You  are  hurrying  and  scurrying 
From  the  sink  to  the  oven, 
So  forgetful  and  so  sloven. 
You  are  bustling  and  hustling 
From  the  pantry  to  the  door, 
With  your  shoe  strings  on  the  floor, 
And  your  apron  strings  a-dragginj, 
And  your  spattered  skirt  a-saggin'. 

You're  an  angel  idiot  lovey, 
One  forgives  you  all  this  clatter 
Washing  dishes,  beating  batter. 
But  there  is  another  matter 
As  you  dream  above  the  sink : 
You're  in  love  pitter-patter, 
With  the  butcher-boy  I  think. 
And  he'll  get  you,  he  has  got  you 
If  he  hasn't  got  you  yet. 

For  he  means  to  make  you  his, 
O  Slip  Shoe  Liz. 
And  your  open  mouth  is  wet 
To  a  little  boyish  chatter. 

[96] 


SLIP  SHOE  LOVEY 

You're  an  easy  thing  to  flatter 
With  your  hank  of  hair  a-twist, 
And  your  left  eye  in  a  mist  — 
O  Slip  Shoe  Lovey ! 

So  hurried  and  so  flurried 
And  just  a  little  worried 
You  lean  about  the  room, 
Like  a  mop,  like  a  broom. 
O  Slip  Shoe  Lovey  ! 
O  Slip  Shoe  Lovey  ! 


971 


THE  ARCHANGELS 

Flopped  on  the  floor 

With  such  a  silken  richness  of  dark  hair, 

Descending  breezily  like  blown  water  from  her  brow, 

And  from  the  arched  crown  of  her  Raphael  head, 

Between  the  years  of  twenty-five  and  thirty, 

Her  face  glows  and  is  white, 

Like  the  thin  spirit  of  a  candle  light. 

And  over  her  forehead  passes 

Swift  waves  of  splendor,  which  must  be  her  thought, 

Looking,  it  seems,  as  if  a  snowy  curtain 

Were  rhythmically  blown  at  dawn  in  a  white  room ! 

In  each  of  her  eyes  there  is  a  blue-bright  spark ! 

One  time  I  saw  two  stars 

Held  in  an  inch  of  water  when  the  evening 

Was  pale  from  dying  day. 

And  under  this  thin  water  lay  dead  leaves 

The  drift  of  late  October  — 

Gray  leaves  beneath  clear  water  by  an  edge 

Where  spring's  first  flower,  the  azure  pickerel  weed, 

Bent  over  contemplated  those  two  stars  : 

These  were  the  sparks  in  her  unruffled  eyes. 

[98] 


THE  ARCHANGELS 

Flopped  on  the  floor 

With  little  hands  clasped  round  her  girlish  knees 

Such  musical  thought  sings  through  her  cherub  lips  — 

Raptures  for  Beauty, 

Raptures  for  Truth, 

Raptures  for  Freedom  and  a  world  that  is  free. 

While  around  her  flames  the  fire  of  a  durable  hope. 

Till  at  last  I  sit  in  wonder 

At  the  miracle  of  such  spirit, 

And  the  miracle  of  the  youths  about  her, 

Listening  with  bright  eyes,  in  the  fellowship  of  delight, 

Who  prompt,  suggest,  applaud,  are  passionate 

For  the  right  word,  the  soaring  thought  to  beat 

At  heaven's  gate  in  a  last  burst  of  song. 

And  here  am  I  a  part  of  this  psychic  circle, 

Bound  with  soft  loops  of  gold  in  a  charmed  band 

Of  a  brood  of  youthful  archangels  fiery  and  strong.  .  .  . 

Then  thrilled  with  love  of  a  land  that  can  grow  such 

souls 

I  turn  and  ask  them  questions : 

How  old  are  you,  who  were  your  father  and  mother  ? 
What  chance  have  you  had  in  life  ? 
What  books  have  you  read  ? 
And  where  have  you  bred  these  dreams  ? 
But  why  do  you  laugh  ?  for  there  must  be  soil  or  blood 
Or  both,  for  there  must  be  the  souls  of  free  men 
And  the  loins  of  free  men, 

199] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

To  make  archangels  you  know, 

And  pour  them  into  the  city  to  think  and  plan 

For  a  greater  Republic  to  come. 

And  though  it  matters  nothing  that  villages 

In  Iowa,  Indiana,  Illinois 

In  the  great  far  west,  in  New  England,  gave  us  you, 

Or  you,  or  you,  or  you  — 

I  somehow  thrill  at  the  contrast,  or  thrill  with  the 

thought 

Of  such  great  richness  and  vastness  in  the  land, 
Flowering  such  souls  all  fresh  and  keen, 
And  eager  to  make  the  Republic  wholly  free  — 
May  she  deserve  your  love  ! 


100  ] 


SONG  OF  CHANGE 

Deep  thought  that  comes  through  stainless  skies ; 
Pure  moods  that  arch  the  fancy's  birth ; 
Sweet  sorrow,  clear  in  youthful  eyes ; 
Soft  laughter,  speaking  maiden  mirth ;  — 
Such  gifts  were  thine,  ere  time  o'ercast 
The  sunshine  of  thy  tender  heart; 
And  now  that  joy  itself  is  past 
Yet  patience  still  will  do  its  part. 

Sad  stars  from  which  the  sun  has  drawn 
The  light  of  life,  no  longer  bright ; 
Life  of  our  lives,  that  with  the  dawn 
Passed,  though  remembered,  from  our  sight ! 
From  noonday  stept  the  chilling  shade 
That  struck  the  quivering  aspens  still ; 
Thou  hopeful  one,  thou  unafraid, 
Smiled  —  but  the  Shadow  had  his  will. 

Souls  of  our  youth  which  tire  and  sleep 
And  wake  to  find  the  hour  is  sped  ! 
Thou  scorn  which  mocks  us  if  we  weep ! 
Thou  hope  which  says  "  Be  comforted  ! " 
Thou  vision  dulled,  whose  tutored  eye 
Sees  but  in  vain  the  poplar  tree 
As  once  upblown  against  the  sky, 
When  we  were  fain,  when  we  were  free. 
[101] 


MEMORABILIA 

Old  pioneers,  how  fare  your  souls  to-day  ? 

They  seem  to  be 

Imminent  about  this  pastoral  way, 

This  sunny  lea. 

The  elms  and  oaks  you  knew,  greenly  renew 

Their  leaves  each  spring, 

But  never  comes  the  hour  again  which  drew 

Your  world  from  view. 

Here  in  a  mood  I  lay,  deep  in  the  grass, 

Between  the  graves ; 

And  saw  ye  rise,  ye  shadowy  forms,  and  pass 

O'er  the  wind's  waves  ; 

Sunk  eyes  and  bended  head,  wherefrom  is  fled 

The  light  of  life ; 

Even  as  the  land,  whose  early  youth  is  dead, 

Whose  glory  fled. 

With  eighty  years  gone  over  what  remains 

For  tongue  to  tell  ? 

Hence  was  it  that  in  silence,  with  no  pains 

At  last  'twas  well, 

Under  these  trees  to  creep,  for  ultimate  sleep 

To  soothe  regret, 

[102] 


MEMORABILIA 

For  the  world's  ways,  for  war,  let  mankind  reap, 
You  said,  and  weep. 

Abram  Rutledge  died,  ere  the  great  war 

Ruined  the  land. 

His  well-loved  son  was  struck  on  fields  afar 

By  a  brother's  hand. 

Then  brought  they  him,  O  pioneer,  on  his  bier 

To  the  hill  and  the  tree, 

Back  home  and  laid  him,  son  of  Trenton,  here 

Your  own  grave  near. 

Of  all  unuttered  griefs,  of  vaguest  woes, 

None  equals  this : 

Forgotten  hands,  and  work  that  no  one  knows 

Whose  work  it  is ; 

Good  gifts  bequeathed,  but  never  earned,  or  spurned 

In  hate  or  pride ; 

And  the  boon  of  an  age  destroyed,  ere  a  cycle  turned 

O'er  you  inurned. 

Abram  Rutledge  lies  in  a  sunken  grave, 

Dust  and  no  more, 

Let  Freedom  fail,  it  is  naught  to  him,  who  was  brave, 

Who  stood  to  the  fore. 

The  oaks  and  elms  he  knew,  greenly  renew 

Their  leaves  each  spring, 

But  gone  his  dream  with  that  last  hour  which  drew 

His  world  from  view. 


TO  A  SPIROCHAETA 

If  through  the  microscope 

We  peer  and  stare 
You  look  like  marceled  shreds  of  rope, 

Or  maiden  hair, 
With  eyeless  hunger  swift  to  grope 

Out  of  your  lair. 

To  feed  and  to  fulfill  your  fate 

You  dive  and  swim 
Forward  and  backward  flagellate 

Amid  the  dim 
Ichor  of  women  where  you  mate, 

Delicate,  slim. 

Why  are  you  screw-shaped,  in  a  spiral  ? 

And  why  your  form 
Like  a  crooked  hand  upon  a  dial  ? 

You  are  the  norm 
For  all  hell  sealed  up  in  a  vial 

To  break  in  storm. 

Your  whips  are  sharper  far  than  sickles, 
Or  cricket  bristle ; 


TO  A  SPIROCHAETA 

With  finer  points  than  rose-leaf  prickles, 

Or  drifting  thistle ; 
You  feed  yourself  till  the  blood  trickles 

Through  flesh  and  gristle. 

When  a  man  knows  he  is  your  diet 

A  solemn  thrill 
Shows  in  great  eyes  and  spirit  quiet 

For  fears  that  kill ; 
He  is  a  maelstrom  running  riot, 

At  the  center  still. 

Well,  Robert  Burns :   You  saw  a  louse 

On  a  lady  crawling. 
But  one  can  keep  to  his  own  house 

Without  forestalling 
This  demon  on  his  death  carouse 

Breeding  and  sprawling. 

But,  Robert  Burns,  this  does  not  tent 

Our  pride  or  tease  us ; 
It  is  not  heaven's  message  sent 

That  virtue  frees  us. 
It  shows  us  hard  or  penitent 

As  Nature  sees  us  ! 


105] 


CATO  BRADEN 

I  went  to  Winston  Prairie  to  attend 
The  funeral  of  Cato  Braden.     He 
Had  died  at  fifty-one  and  I  had  known  him 
Since  he  was  twenty-four,  but  for  fifteen 
Years  or  more  I  had  not  seen  him,  nor 
Exchanged  with  him  more  than  a  telegraphic 
Note  about  some  trivial  thing.     Indeed 
I  had  not  been  in  Winston  Prairie  during 
These  fifteen  years. 

But  on  the  train  I  thought 
Of  Cato  Braden,  brought  back  all  the  days 
Through  which  I  knew  him,  from  the  very  first 
When  he  returned  to  Winston  Prairie  from 
De  Pauw,  or  was  it  Valparaiso  ?     Yet 
JTwas  called  a  university  I  remember. 
And  when  I  knew  him  first  he  kept  at  hand 
De  Senectute,  also  Anthon's  Homer, 
And  lexicons  in  Latin  and  in  Greek, 
Both  unabridged.     Sometimes  he  let  me  read 
The  orations  he  had  won  the  prizes  with. 
And  sometimes  he  would  tell  me  what  it  meant 
To  study  at  a  university. 
And  what  they  did  and  what  the  boys  were  like. 

[106] 


CATO  BRADEN 

This  Cato  Braden  was  a  happy  soul 

At  twenty-four,  of  a  full  noble  brow, 

A  gentle  smiling  mouth,  an  honest  eye, 

A  tall  and  handsome  figure,  altogether 

A  man  conspicuous  for  form,  a  bearing 

Of  grace  and  courtliness,  engaging  ways ; 

He  might  be  called  most  lovable,  he  had 

The  gift  of  friendship,  was  not  envious, 

Could  scarcely  be  enraged,  was  not  offended 

By  little  things  and  often  not  by  great. 

He  had  in  short  a  nature  fit  to  work 

With  great  capacity ;   had  he  combined 

An  intellect  but  half  his  nature's  worth 

He  might  have  won  the  race.     But  many  thought 

He  promised  much,  his  father  most  of  all 

Because  he  had  these  virtues,  and  in  truth 

Before  his  leaves  unfolded  with  the  spring 

His  mind  seemed  apt,  perhaps  seemed  measured  full 

Of  quality,  the  prizes  he  had  won 

At  Valparaiso  pointed  to  the  fruit 

He  would  produce  at  last. 

So  on  the  train 

I  thought  of  Cato  Braden.     Then  I  thought 
Of  when  he  came  from  school  with  his  degree, 
And  for  that  summer  when  he  walked  the  square, 
Was  whispered  of  as  "Cato  Braden,  look/' 
The  first  thing  Winston  Prairie  knew  it  saw 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

His  name  conjoined  with  that  of  Jerry  Ott's  — 

It  was  Ott  and  Braden,  editors  and  owners, 

The  Winston  Prairie  Eagle.     Jerry  Ott 

Was  sixty-nine  and  wheezy  from  the  fight 

For  Jefferson  Democracy,  free  trade. 

Besides  the  capital  that  Cato  Braden 

Brought  through  his  father  to  the  enterprise 

Meant  bitter  war  on  enemies  of  truth. 

And  Cato  Braden's  father  had  some  wealth 

Made  from  the  making  of  a  vermifuge 

And  a  preposterous  compound  which  he  called 

Pesodorne ;   and  I  have  always  thought 

That  Cato  Braden's  father  garrisoned 

His  factory  for  making  patent  nostrums 

By  buying  for  his  son  this  interest, 

And  place  of  power  in  journalism ;  for 

The  father's  strong  devotion  to  the  church 

Did  not  protect  him  'gainst  the  casual  sneers 

Of  Winston  Prairie's  paper  called  the  Lance, 

Which  used  to  print  such  things  as  this,  to  instance 

"There's  Braden's  Vermifuge,  well,  Doctor  Braden, 

Try  your  own  vermifuge,  let's  see  it  work." 

Well,  anyway  I  know  that  Cato  Braden 
Intended  to  pursue  a  legal  course, 
And  practice  the  profession  in  a  city. 
I  know  his  father  bought  for  him  this  place 
With  Jerry  Ott  as  editor  of  the  Eagle. 
[108] 


CATO  BRADEN 

I  know  he  went  to  work.     I  know  he  changed 

The  paper's  motto  from  "Hew  to  the  line," 

To  Principia  non  homines.     I  know 

He  used  to  sing  "Over  the  Garden  Wall," 

While  writing  editorials  and  smoked 

A  number  of  cheroots.     I  know  he  had 

A  locked  drawer  where  he  kept  a  secret  bottle 

From  which  he'd  take  a  drink  at  noon  or  night. 

I  know  he  was  on  terms  of  friendship  with 

The  milliner  and  dressmaker  in  a  month 

After  he  came  from  Valparaiso.     Yes, 

I  know  he  advocated  a  gymnasium, 

And  dancing  hall  for  Winston  Prairie,  and 

He  opened  up  a  fight  to  get  a  park 

Where  concerts  might  be  given.     Cato  Braden 

Had  these  ideas  at  least.     About  this  park 

A  word  remains  to  say. 

Fernando  Winston, 

Who  founded  Winston  Prairie  and  surveyed 
The  original  town,  laid  out  a  square  along 
The  river  for  a  pleasure  ground ;  in  time, 
Some  fifty  years  or  more,  it  was  forgotten. 
And  when  this  Cato  Braden  came  to  town 
And  started  as  a  journalist  'twas  used 
In  part  by  Winston  Prairie's  creamery ; 
In  part  'twas  used  for  gardening  by  the  pastor 
Of  Winston  Prairie's  strongest  church.     But  Cato 

[109] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

Had  searched  the  records,  found,  them  straight,  began 

To  agitate  the  park.     And  it  was  this, 

Together  with  Principia  non  homines, 

Free  trade,  the  dressmaker  and  milliner, 

Perhaps  the  bottle  in  the  drawer,  whose  secret 

Leaked  out  at  once,  that  clove  the  people  of 

The  town  into  two  groups  of  friends  and  foes. 

He  had  but  just  begun  his  editorship 

When  I  left  Winston  Prairie ;   after  that 

Knew  little  of  it,  saw  him  but  at  times, 

Long  separated,  saw  him  not  at  all 

For  fifteen  years  before  his  death,  and  now 

Because  I  was  his  friend  was  on  the  train 

His  funeral  to  attend. 

I  drove  to  Oakland 

With  Dr.  Green  and  William  Smoot  the  grocer. 
'Twas  hot  without  a  breeze,  the  town  was  still. 
The  church  bell  tolled  until  we  reached  the  grave, 
It  was  the  church  whose  pastor  used  the  square 
For  gardening.     And  on  the  way  I  asked 
Why  Cato  Braden  died  at  fifty-one. 
"Why,  whisky,"  answered  William  Smoot,  the  grocer, 
"And  women,"  for  he  had  bad  luck  they  say. 
"How  is  that,  Doc,  you  know?" 

And  Dr.  Green 

After  a  silence  said  :   "It  isn't  true, 
[no] 


CATO  BRADEN 

"He  was  as  sound,  so  far  as  that's  concerned 
"As  any  of  us." 

Then  I  asked  again 
Why  Cato  Braden  died  at  fifty-one. 
And  Dr.  Green  said  laughing,  "Well,  you  know 
"They  die  at  thirty-one  and  forty-one, 
"And  sixty-one  of  what  killed  Cato  Braden, 
"That's  Bright's  Disease." 

"And  whisky  brings  that  on  — 
I  ventured  to  assert. 

"Sometimes"  replied 
The  man  of  medicine,  "But  other  things 
"Produce  it.     There's  a  man's  diathesis; 
"There's  worry,  over-work,  sometimes  disease 
"Suffered  in  childhood,  leaving  an  effect 
"Like  soil,  all  fertilized  for  such  seed  as  this. 
"He  should  have  drunk  no  whisky,  yet  he  drank 
"Not  half  so  much  as  Winston  Prairie  thought. 
"But  you  can  see  if  whisky  caused  this  thing 
"All  whisky  drinkers  would  be  sure  to  have  it, 
"Or  die  of  it  if  not  killed  by  a  train." 

We  left  the  carriage,  having  reached  the  place 
Where  Cato  Braden's  grave  was  dug,  and  stood 
Together  in  a  company  of  fifty 
And  heard  the  pastor  pray  for  heaven's  lessons 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

From  Cato  Braden' s  life.     And  after  that 
We  separated,  made  the  horses  trot 
To  reach  our  different  destinations.     I 
Looked  up  Will  Boyden  for  a  little  talk 
Before  my  train  left  for  the  city. 

Will 

Was  in  his  office  with  his  sleeves  rolled  up, 
Cob-pipe  in  mouth,  typing  a  legal  paper, 
A  narratio  in  slander,  so  he  said. 
He  smiled  from  ear  to  ear  and  dropped  his  work. 
"You're  here  for  Cato's  funeral,"  he  said, 
And  added,  "It's  a  shame  he  had  to  die, 
Damned  if  it  isn't." 

Then  I  asked  again 
Why  Cato  Braden  died  at  fifty-one, 
And  Will  said  :   "Winston  Prairie,  Illinois, 
Killed  Cato  Braden." 

Tell  me  what  you  mean  ?" 
Then  Will  refreshed  his  pipe  and  talked  to  me : 
"I'm  fifty-two  and  good  for  twenty  years 
I  have  no  stronger  frame  than  Cato  Braden, 
But  then  I  got  a  formula  for  life 
As  time  went  on,  and  it  was  one  that  suited 
My  nature,  and  I  thrived  as  you  can  see. 
I  have  the  power  to  draw  the  nutriment 
Out  of  this  soil,  and  I  get  strength  thereby 

[112] 


CATO  BRADEN 

Wherewith  to  overcome  the  things  that  kill. 

I  work,  but  then  I  play,  I  hunt  and  fish, 

I  read  and  sometimes  take  a  little  trip. 

I  don't  drink  whisky,  not  because  I  fear  it, 

But  I  hate  putting  in  myself  such  fire  — 

Beer  and  light  wines  are  pleasant,  more  like  food 

Than  stimulants.     Well,  Cato  Braden  started 

When  'Over  the  Garden  Wall'  was  all  the  rage, 

'All  Coons  Look  Alike  to  Me'  was  my 

Key-note  for  starting.     You  know  what  I  mean  : 

Between  my  day  and  his  there's  just  the  difference 

That  lies  between  waltz  time  and  syncopation ; 

Between  the  magic  lantern  and  the  movie, 

The  rattan  phaeton  and  Ford  machine. 

These  new  things  came  along  before  he  died, 

But  he  had  made  his  life  for  the  old  things, 

Could  not  adjust  himself,  De  Senectute 

And  Valparaiso  had  not  taught  him  how 

To  reach  out  in  the  world  from  Winston  Prairie 

And  get  the  new  things  for  his  life.     But  if 

They  taught  him  how  he  lost  the  secret  here. 

For  after  all  a  place  like  Winston  Prairie 

Will  kill  your  spirit  just  as  surely  as 

The  Island  where  they  cooped  up  great  Napoleon. 

In  the  first  place  what  is  a  man  to  do 

With  life  in  any  place  ?     That  is  the  problem. 

And  what  could  Cato  Braden  do  with  life 

In  Winston  Prairie  ?     First  he  was  as  fitted 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

To  be  a  journalist  as  I,  and  if 
Endowed  to  be  a  journalist,  just  think 
Of  editing  The  Eagle.     But  you  see 
His  father  was  at  war  then  with  the  Lance 
Over  that  vermifuge  and  pesodorne. 
And  under  guise  of  starting  him  in  life 
Bought  Cato  in  the  paper  for  the  selfish 
Purpose  of  defending  vermifuge. 
And  Cato  did  it  too,  and  put  away 
From  year  to  year  his  dream  of  studying 
The  law  and  practicing  in  a  city. 
During  which  time  the  poisons  of  this  town 
Crept  in  his  blood  and  stupefied  and  killed  him. 
He  married  Mary  Comfort,  as  you  know. 
And  Mary  is  —  well,  what  I  call  a  brood-mare, 
Although  they  had  no  children.     What  I  mean 
She  is  a  well-fleshed  woman,  sound  of  nerve, 
A  help-eat,  but  she  made  a  loyal  wife 
Who  had  two  eyes  to  see  what  Cato  saw, 
And  never  an  eye  to  help  him  see  the  things 
That  lay  around  him,  which  he  stumbled  over. 
And  marriage  to  my  mind  means  this  to  man : 
He  drains  his  body  out  to  be  a  father, 
And  drains  his  spirit  out  to  be  a  husband, 
Unless  the  woman  helps  him  see  or  feel 
More  than  he  sees  or  feels  for  self.     Well  then 
The  years  went  on.     And  every  day  at  eight 
He  could  be  seen  toward  his  office  bent. 


CATO  BRADEN 

At  half  past  ten  just  as  the  morning  train 

Was  whistling  for  the  crossing  he  would  go 

To  get  the  mail.     Returning  he  would  walk 

Along  Main  Street,  slapping  the  folded  News 

Against  his  leg.     He  scanned  it  in  his  office. 

At  twelve  o'clock  he  went  to  dinner,  then 

As  whisky  made  him  eat,  he  over-ate 

And  took  a  nap  till  two  o'clock.     At  three 

One  might  discover  him  at  solitaire  — 

He  had  clipped  from  the  morning  paper  quite  enough 

To  keep  the  boys  in  copy.     Then  at  four 

He  might  be  sitting  at  the  livery  stable, 

Or  sometimes  might  be  found  in  that  back  room 

Of  Little's  restaurant,  where  a  keg  of  beer 

Shipped  in  was  being  tapped.     At  night  perhaps 

He  might  be  seen  down  there  on  Locust  street, 

Waiting  to  enter  where  the  milliner  lived. 

So  passed  his  life  away  from  twenty-four 

To  fifty-one.     It's  simple  enough  to  ask 

Why  not  write  for  the  Eagle,  make  it  better, 

Give  ideas  to  the  people,  help  the  town, 

Refresh  the  mind,  read,  study  history, 

De  Senectute  ?     Fancy  Teddy  Roosevelt, 

Who's  labored  for  this  land  with  restless  gifts, 

Tied  down  in  Winston  Prairie  —  well,  you  can't, 

He'd  break  the  ties,  and  that's  the  point,  you  see. 

For  Cato  couldn't  break  them,  had  to  stay, 

Incapable  to  extract  the  good  that's  here, 

[us] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

Susceptible  to  all  the  bad  that's  here ; 
He  was  a  nose  half  active 
Who  enters  in  a  room  where  gas  escapes, 
Sits  in  the  room  unconscious  of  the  gas 
Till  he  grows  sluggish,  lies  him  down  to  rest 
And  dies  unknowing.     So  I  say  it's  true 
That  Winston  Prairie  ruined  Cato  Braden 
And  killed  him  in  the  end. 

s 

You  must  go  see, 

Before  you  leave,  our  park  called  Willard  Park, 
Named  after  Emma  Willard,  that  devout 
Old  woman,  dead  these  fifteen  years  or  so. 
She  left  enough  to  build  a  granite  coping, 
Set  out  some  trees,  and  buy  park  seats,  a  stone 
Whereon  to  carve  the  words,  'The  gracious  gift 
Of  Emma  Willard.'     Well,  this  Cato  Braden 
First  talked  this  park,  was  first  to  tell  the  truth 
About  this  plot  of  ground.     And  more  than  that 
When  Cato  Braden  came  here  he  had  dreams : 
He  wrote  at  first  that  boxing,  wrestling,  racing 
Would  help  this  town ;   that  games  were  needed  here ; 
That  Americans  seemed  ignorant  of  the  art 
Of  being  gay,  feeling  light-hearted,  wise 
To  play ;  that  they  were  wise  to  work  and  pray, 
Fear  happiness.     And  Cato  Braden  said 
The  little  town  was  cursed  by  just  these  things, 
And  many  human  souls  destroyed  by  them. 


CATO  BRADEN 

These  were  not  thoughts  of  his,  he  found  them  somewhere, 

But  knew  them  when  he  found  them,  that's  his  credit. 

What  though  he  was  a  drunk  man  whom  you  ask 

What  road  to  take,  who  points  and  gurgles  guttural 

Sounds  inarticulate  ?     Or  better  still 

What  though  he  was  a  sick  man  who  in  vain 

Attempts  to  make  his  household  orders  clear  ? 

For  it  was  true  that  Cato  Braden  spoke 

About  these  things  at  first,  then  gave  them  up. 

For  no  one  seemed  responsive  to  his  plans. 

And  some  there  were  who  sneered,  and  others  said 

He'd  better  help  the  church,  and  leave  alone 

The  questions  which  make  bitterness  and  strife, 

Which  was  their  way  of  speaking  of  the  square 

Which  Cato  tried  to  make  into  a  park. 

They  say  a  lung  will  turn  to  stone  or  steel 

When  men  work  in  the  filings  and  the  dust. 

At  last  the  dust  of  Winston  Prairie  turned 

His  soul  to  dust. 

You  see  old  Jerry  Ott 
Had  left  a  son  his  interest  in  the  Eagle, 
And  Cato  Braden  died  right  at  his  table 
While  playing  solitaire.     This  son  came  in 
And  found  him  dead,  a  card  clutched  in  his  hand. 
The  card  was,  strange  enough,  the  deuce  of  clubs  ! 
This  son  was  glad  that  Cato  Braden  died 
For  now  he  runs  the  Eagle  by  himself. 

[117] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

This  Cato  Braden  had  three  strains  of  thought. 

I  never  met  him  lately  but  he  talked 

Some  one  of  them,  at  times  all  three  of  them. 

One  was  the  American  town  must  be  improved, 

So  better  to  conserve  the  souls  and  bodies 

Of  boys  and  girls.     And  even  when  the  movie, 

And  other  things  of  this  day  came  along 

He  still  maintained  they  did  not  meet  the  case. 

He  never  said  what  thing  was  requisite. 

But  in  a  general  way  I  think  he  meant 

A  stronger,  and  more  truthful  and  more  natural 

Outlook  and  attitude  would  save  a  town 

From  dust,  and  mold  and  death.     For  once  he  said 

"  This  winter  I  shall  read  Crete's  History." 

He  never  read  it.     But  I  think  he  meant 

He  would  find  out  the  secret  of  the  Greeks. 

And  then  he'd  say  the  young,  the  middle  aged 

The  old  made  separate  spheres  of  feeling,  thought ; 

And  that  a  town  should  not  be  ruled  by  one, 

Should  not  be  governed  as  all  folks  were  old, 

Or  young,  or  middle  aged,  but  each  should  have 

The  town  for  his  according  to  his  age, 

And  thought  and  vital  power,  within  his  sphere 

And  period  of  life ;   these  separate  spheres 

Should  move  untroubled  by  the  others,  move 

Free,  independent  of  the  other  spheres. 

I  talked  with  Cato  Braden  for  the  last 
[118] 


CATO  BRADEN 

A  week  ago  last  night.     He  said  to  me : 
I  wake  these  mornings  lately  with  the  thought 
Another  chance  will  come  to  me,  that  death 
Will  bring  another  chance.     And  then  he  said : 
This  is  the  way  of  it.     When  you  are  young 
You  say  in  five  years  I  shall  take  a  trip, 
See  New  York  City,  go  abroad  perhaps. 
When  five  years  pass  you  do  not  take  the  trip. 
Then  you  say  in  a  year  I'll  take  the  trip. 
And  so  it  goes,  while  you  say  in  a  year, 
Next  year,  next  year,  until  at  last  you  say 
No,  never  now !     Well,  now  you'd  think  a  man 
Would  weep  when  he  stands  up  against  the  wall, 
And  knows  he  cannot  climb  the  wall.     But  no, 
Something  still  whispers  you  will  do  it  yet. 
And  then  you  know  it  must  be  after  death, 
In  life  again,  the  chance  will  come  to  you. 
For  you  know  well  it  is  not  in  this  life. 
Then  Cato  Braden  said :   Not  in  this  life 
Shall  I  read  Grote,  I  could  not  understand  it 
After  these  years  in  Winston  Prairie  —  still 
I  have  a  feeling  I  shall  know  about  it 
Somewhere,  somehow. 

You'd  better  catch  your  train. 
It's  good  to  see  you.     Up  there  in  the  city 
Think  sometimes  of  the  American  village  and 
What  may  be  done  for  conservation  of 
The  souls  of  men  and  women  in  the  village." 

[119] 


WINSTON  PRAIRIE 

"What  made  you  buy  those  lots  in  Winston  Prairie  ? 
If  you  had  come  to  me  I  could  have  told  you 
About  the  circuit  judge,  the  state's  attorney, 
The  county  judge,  the  county  clerk,  the  treasurer, 
The  assessors  and  collectors  who  belong 
To  what  we  call  a  court-house  ring.     You  know 
They  run  the  county,  re-elect  themselves, 
Play  with  the  local  bosses,  stand  in  league 
With  sellers  of  cement,  and  brick  and  lumber, 
And  with  the  papers  given  the  public  printing, 
And  with  the  sharks  who  buy  in  property 
For  taxes  sold,  and  with  the  intriguing  thieves 
Who  make  improvements,  levy  the  assessments 
For  side-walk,  sewers." 

So  my  friend  to  me. 

"Good  land,"  I  answered,  "I  inherited  them, 
I  did  not  buy  these  lots.     But  apropos 
Of  what  you  say,  Fve  wondered  what's  the  matter. 
I  write  and  write  for  statements  of  my  taxes, 
And  cannot  get  them.     Then  I  take  the  train, 
And  travel  through  the  heat  to  Winston  Prairie. 
And  I  stand  before  a  window  asking  for  them. 

[120] 


WINSTON  PRAIRIE 

Your  property  was  sold,  I  am  informed. 
So  I  redeem,  and  go  out  to  the  grave-yard 
To  look  at  Cato  Braden's  grave,  and  then 
Catch  the  next  train  for  home.     A  week  or  so 
Elapses  and  I  get  a  letter  —  hum  ! 
Winston  Prairie  —  office  of  the  controller  ; 
Your  property  was  sold  for  special  numbered 
Two  thousand  and  eighty-six,  when  you  reply 
Please  mention  sale  1019.  —  Damn  these  thieves  ! 
So  I  pay  that.     I  see  !   your  court-house  ring,  — 
The  men  who're  sworn  to  enforce  the  law  are  those 
Who  break  it,  and  who  use  it  to  despoil  you  — 
Well,  let  me  tell  you. 

In  this  very  June 

I  went  to  Winston  Prairie  on  this  errand, 
And  after  I  had  written  several  times 
To  get  a  statement.     I  arrived  at  noon  — 
And  yet  the  court-house  offices  were  closed, 
The  treasurer's,  the  clerk's,  controller's,  all. 
I  met  a  janitor  who  said  :  All  closed 
Till  half  past  one.     That  meant  I'd  miss  my  train 
Back  to  Chicago,  and  would  have  to  stay 
In  Winston  Prairie  until  six  o'clock. 
I  sat  down  in  the  hall-way  with  a  curse. 
But  in  a  minute  there  were  hideous  yells, 
Shrieks,  curses,  as  it  were  of  women  beaten, 
Tortured,  or  strangled.     So  I  went  to  see, 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

And  found  a  door  behind  which  I  could  hear 
Intolerable  tears,  the  scratching  of  weak  hands 
Against  the  door  and  wall.     What  is  the  matter  ? 
I  hallooed  through  the  door.     O,  go  to  hell 
A  woman  said,  you  know  what  is  the  matter. 
I  don't,  I  said,  I'll  help  you  if  I  can. 
Then  followed  sobs  and  wails,  and  incoherent 
Blubbering  of  words.     At  last  I  saw  a  finger 
Stuck  through  the  broken  plaster  by  the  door, 
And  leaning  down  I  said  :   look  through  at  me. 
And  then  I  stooped  and  looking  through  the  crack 
Saw  a  gray  eye,  which  looked  as  it  might  be 
Of  Slavic  birth.     But  who  can  read  an  eye 
Shown  singly  through  a  crack  ?     So  while  I  talked 
To  get  the  story  of  these  girls  in  prison, 
(For  where  they  were  was  called  the  calaboose, 
Built  in  the  court-house)  some  one  back  of  me 
Said :   They'll  be  quiet  in  due  time,  the  cooler 
Cools  people  off.     I  turned  and  saw  a  man 
Who  seemed  to  be  a  judge,  and  was  a  judge, 
As  I  discovered  later.     Well,  I  said, 
I  cannot  bear  to  see  a  human  being 
In  such  distress  and  terror  —  what's  their  ages  ? 
One's  sixteen  and  one's  seventeen,  said  the  judge, 
But  they  are  bad  ones,  so  I  made  the  fine 
Enough  to  hold  them  thirty  days.     I  asked 
What  did  they  do  ?    They  were  soliciting, 
The  judge  replied,  and  here  in  Winston  Prairie 

[122] 


WINSTON  PRAIRIE 

The  law  is  law  and  we  enforce  the  law. 

We  do  not  do  as  you  do  in  Chicago. 

I  felt  my  heart  shut  tight  its  valves  and  stop, 

And  was  about  to  say :  You  are  a  fool. 

You  are  what  some  would  have  America, 

You  are  an  Illinoisan,  damn  your  soul. 

You  are  a  figure  in  the  court-house  ring, 

Whereof  the  tax  shark  is  a  figure  too. 

But  then  I  thought  these  girls  might  prove  to  be 

Worth  while  some  time.     But  even  if  they  live 

Street  walkers  all  their  lives,  they  stone  no  prophets, 

Devour  no  widows'  houses,  do  less  harm 

Than  court-house  rings  and  judges  in  the  rings. 

So  this  is  what  I  said  :   May  I  enquire 

What  are  your  Honor's  hours  for  holding  court  ? 

And  he  replied  :   Court  has  adjourned  till  two. 

I  hold  till  six  o'clock,  we  do  not  loaf 

As  judges  in  Chicago  do,  good-day  ! 

Well,  then  at  half  past  one  I  paid  my  taxes, 

With  interest,  penalties  and  all  the  costs. 

At  two  o'clock  I  stood  before  the  bar 

And  to  the  judge  addressed  these  words  :   Your  Honor, 

I  represent  Miss  Christine  Leichentritt, 

Miss  Garda  Gerstenburg,  who  are  in  jail 

Under  your  Honor's  sentence.     I  have  seen 

The  state's  attorney,  who  is  satisfied 

To  let  them  go,  if  all  the  costs  are  paid. 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

I  went  to  see  him  on  a  matter  of  taxes, 

And  this  came  up.     The  state's  attorney  rose 

And  said  :  Your  Honor,  they  are  very  young, 

And  though  they  have  been  caught  before  at  this, 

And  warned  that  Winston  Prairie  is  no  place 

For  them  to  ply  their  trade,  I  am  inclined 

To  think  they  will  not  break  our  laws  again. 

I  thought  I  saw  his  honor's  eye  light  up 
As  if  it  caught  a  wireless,  so  he  said : 
"The  court  is  satisfied."     I  paid  the  costs 
And  took  Christine  and  Garda  to  Chicago. 
But  at  the  station,  as  I  said  good  bye, 
Christine  flared  up :  You  don't  suppose  that  I 
Will  let  you  pay  those  costs,  I  am  not  cheap. 
I  may  be  bad,  but  I  am  square,  she  said. 
And  I  have  money  in  my  room,  come  on 
To  Twelfth  and  Wabash  and  I'll  pay  you  back 
For  me  and  Garda. 

No,  I  said,  go  on. 

Try  to  be  good,  but  if  you  can't  be  good, 
Be  wise,  and  do  not  go  to  Winston  Prairie. 
I  turned  and  disappeared  among  the  crowds. 


[124 


WILL  BOYDEN  LECTURES 

The  Sunday  after  Cato  Braden  died 

Will  Boyden  lectured  in  the  Masons'  Hall 

Upon  the  theme,  "Was  Jesus  Really  Great?" 

At  first  he  pointed  out  that  Jesus  knew 

No  history  except  that  of  the  Jews. 

And  if  he'd  heard  of  Athens  never  spoke 

A  word  about  it,  never  read  a  line 

Of  Homer,  Sophocles,  or  Aristotle, 

Or  Plato,  or  of  Virgil,  never  a  word 

Concerning  Egypt's  wisdom,  or  of  India's. 

And  then  he  dropped  this  point  with  the  remark 

That  one  could  know  one's  people's  history 

And  that  alone,  and  still  be  great,  perhaps. 

But  still  he  thought  it  was  unfortunate 

That  Jesus  gave  the  Hebrews  such  a  lift 

So  that  to-day  they  rule  the  Occident 

Where  Athens  should  have  ruled,  if  only  Time 

Had  given  her  the  right  dramatic  touch 

To  catch  the  populace. 

He  then  declared 

That  Jesus  was  a  poet,  but  he  said : 
"What  are  his  figures  ?     Never  a  word  of  stars, 
And  never  a  word  of  oceans,  nor  of  mountains 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

Save  Olivet  or  Zion,  so  you  see 

His  limitations  as  to  imagery. 

Then  have  you  noted  how  his  sombre  soul 

Picked  blasted  fig-trees,  tares,  the  leprous  poor, 

And  sepulchres  and  sewers,  dirty  cups, 

Wherewith  to  make  interpretations,  yes 

He  spoke  of  lilies,  too.     Well,  so  have  I. 

And  yet  you  people  call  me  pessimist 

Because  I've  tried  to  rescue  Winston  Prairie, 

And  have  not  shrunk  from  charging  Winston  Prairie 

With  Cato  Braden's  death.     The  difference 

Between  the  Man  of  Galilee  and  me 

Is  this :  He  wanted  to  fulfill  the  law 

Of  Moses  and  Isaiah,  make  Jerusalem, 

Which  was  a  Winston  Prairie  in  a  way, 

A  Hebrew  citadel  to  rule  the  world. 

And  I,  if  I  could  have  my  way,  would  make 

Of  Winston  Prairie  Athens." 

Then  he  said 

"  I  have  four  thoughts  to-day  to  touch  upon. 
The  first  one  is  concerning  hogs  —  you  start : 
Well,  look  at  Matthew  chapter  eight  and  find 
How  certain  hogs  had  cast  in  them  the  devils 
Of  fierceness,  blindness,  lustfulness  and  ran 
Down  in  the  sea  to  kill  themselves  for  being 
Made  perfecter  as  hogs.     Go  get  some  hogs 
And  let  me  try  my  hand  at  exorcising 

f  126] 


WILL  BOYDEN  LECTURES 

The  Winston  Prairie  devils  which  destroyed 
Poor  Cato  Braden. 

"My  next  thought  is  found 
In  Matthew  chapter  nine ;   and  it  is  this ; 
When  Jesus  saw  the  multitude  all  fainting, 
And  scattered  abroad  as  sheep  without  a  shepherd, 
His  soul  was  stirred  —  that  is  a  way  with  genius, 
Whether  it  be  your  Altgeld,  Pericles, 
Or  yet  your  artist  soul  like  Heinrich  Heine. 
But  think  of  this :   If  you  would  lead  and  save 
The  multitude,  assuming  that  can  be, 
Shall  you  accomplish  it  by  rules  and  laws 
Applied  externally,  which  is  the  way 
Ecclesiastic  powers  pursue  and  find 
Divine  authority  in  Jesus  for  it  ? 
Or  shall  you  teach  the  way  of  opening  up 
The  soul  of  man  to  sun-light,  letting  in 
The  Power  which  is  around  us,  in  the  which 
We  live  and  move,  and  so  give  chance  for  growth 
To  what  is  in  us  ?     For  your  shepherd  drives. 
No,  Jesus  hit  it  better  when  he  spoke 
Of  leaven  than  of  shepherds. 

"  So  if  one 

Find  leaven  and  would  give  it,  let  there  be 
A  few  to  watch  the  final  hour  with  him, 
When  he  would  be  delivered  from  the  cup, 
But  knows  it  cannot  be,  that  to  refuse 
The  cup  is  to  deny  the  inexorable  law. 

[127] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

"  So  now  I  come  to  what  is  chiefest  here : 

Destroy  this  temple  and  I  will  re-build  it 

In  three  days.     Now  you  know  what  preachers  say 

This  means  the  resurrection  —  not  at  all ! 

These  were  the  greatest  words  that  Jesus  said. 

And  here  his  genius  seized  its  fullest  power, 

Here  was  it  that  he  hid  Jerusalem 

Under  his  hands  as  if  it  were  a  toy, 

And  tossed  the  world  up  as  it  were  a  ball. 

Why,  what  are  temples,  cities,  cultures,  ages 

Of  beauty,  glory,  but  the  work  of  genius  ? 

What  earth  -and  stone  and  flesh  but  plastic  stuff 

Responsive  to  the  touch  of  prophet  hands  ? 

What  Winston  Prairie,  what  America 

And  all  this  turbulence  of  bobbing  heads 

In  fields  and  markets,  temples,  halls  across 

This  continent  of  sovereign  states  but  puppets 

Which  may  be  changed  in  flesh,  in  deepest  spirit, 

Made  more  erect,  heroic,  God-like,  wise 

By  genius'  hands,  not  revolutionists', 

Nor  shepherds'.     So  destroy  America, 

But  not  by  picks  and  axes,  let  it  be 

As  in  the  movies  where  a  lovelier  face 

Steals  in  and  blots  with  brighter  light  a  face, 

Which  must  fade  out  to  let  the  lovelier  face 

Complete  the  story. 

Now  in  a  moment's  silence 
Let's  pray  for  Cato  Braden." 

[128! 


THE  DESPLAINES  FOREST 

The  sun  has  sunk  below  the  level  plain, 
And  yet  above  the  forest's  leafy  gloom 
The  glory  of  the  evening  lightens  still. 
Smooth  as  a  mirror  is  the  river's  face 
With  Heaven's  light,  and  all  its  radiant  clouds 
And  shadows  which  against  the  river's  shore 
Already  are  as  night.     From  some  retreat 
Obscure  and  lonely,  evening's  saddest  bird 
Whistles,  and  beyond  the  water  comes 
The  musical  reply,  and  silence  reigns  — 
Save  for  the  noisy  chorus  of  the  frogs, 
And  undistinguished  sounds  of  faint  portent 
That  night  has  come.     There  is  a  rustic  bridge 
Which  spans  the  stream,  from  which  we  look  below 
At  Heaven  above,  till  revery  reclaims 
The  mind  from  hurried  thought  and  merges  it 
Into  the  universal  mind  which  broods 
O'er  such  a  scene.     Strange  quietude  o'erspreads 
The  restless  flame  of  being,  and  the  soul 
Beholds  its  source  and  destiny  and  feels 
Not  sorrowful  to  sink  into  the  breast 
Of  that  large  life  whereof  it  is  a  part. 
What  are  we  ?     But  the  question  is  not  solved 
K  [129] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

Here  in  the  presence  of  intensest  thought, 
Where  nature  stills  the  clamor  of  the  world, 
And  leaves  us  in  communion  with  ourselves. 
Hence  to  the  strivings  of  the  clear-eyed  day 
What  take  we  that  shall  mitigate  the  pangs 
That  each  soul  is  alone,  and  that  all  friends 
Gentle  and  wise  and  good  can  never  soothe 
The  ache  of  that  sub-consciousness  which  is 
Something  unfathomed  and  unmedicined  ? 
Yet  this  it  is  which  keeps  us  in  the  path 
Of  some  ambition  cherished  or  pursued ; 
The  still,  small  voice  that  is  not  quieted 
By  disregard,  but  ever  speaks  to  us 
Its  mandates  while  we  wake  or  sleep,  and  asks 
A  closer  harmony  with  that  great  scheme 
Which  is  the  music  of  the  universe. 

So  as  the  cherubim  of  Heaven  defend 
The  realms  of  the  unknown  with  flaming  swords, 
Thence  are  we  driven  to  the  world  which  is 
Ours  to  be  known  through  Art,  who  beckons  us 
To  excellence,  and  in  her  rarer  moods 
Casts  shadowy  glances  of  serener  lands, 
Where  all  the  serious  gods,  removed  from  stress 
And  interruption,  build,  as  we  conceive, 
In  fellowship  that  knows  not  that  reserve 
Which  clouds  the  hearts  of  those  who  wish  to  live 
As  they,  in  that  large  realm  of  perfect  mind. 
[130] 


THE  GARDEN 

I  do  not  like  my  garden,  but  I  love 

The  trees  I  planted  and  the  flowers  thereof. 

How  does  one  choose  his  garden  ?     O  with  eyes 

O'er  which  a  passion  or  illusion  lies. 

Perhaps  it  wakens  memories  of  a  lawn 

You  knew  before  somewhere.     Or  you  are  drawn 

By  an  old  urn,  a  little  gate,  a  roof 

Which  soars  into  a  blue  sky,  clear,  aloof. 

One  buys  a  garden  gladly.     Even  the  worst 

Seems  tolerable  or  beautiful  at  first. 

Their  very  faults  give  loving  labor  scope : 

One  can  correct,  adorn ;   'tis  sweet  to  hope 

For  beauty  to  emerge  out  of  your  toil, 

To  build  the  walks  and  fertilize  the  soil. 

Before  I  knew  my  garden  or  awoke 

To  its  banality  I  set  an  oak 

At  one  end  for  a  life-long  husbandry, 

A  white  syringa  and  a  lilac  tree, 

Close  to  one  side  to  hide  a  crumbling  wall, 

Which  was  my  neighbor's,  held  in  several 

Title  and  beyond  my  right  to  mend  — 

One  cannot  with  an  ancient  time  contend. 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

Some  houses  shadowed  me.     I  did  not  dream 
The  sun  would  never  look  o'er  them  and  gleam, 
Save  at  the  earliest  hour.     So  all  the  day 
One  half  my  garden  under  twilight  lay. 
Another  soul  had  overlooked  the  shade : 
I  found  the  boundaries  of  a  bed  he  made 
For  tulips.     Well,  I  had  a  fresher  trust 
And  spent  my  heart  upon  this  sterile  dust. 
What  thing  will  grow  where  never  the  sun  shines  ? 
Vainly  I  planted  flowering  stalks  and  vines. 
What  years  to  learn  the  soil !     Why  even  weeds 
Look  green  and  fresh.     But  if  one  concedes 
Salvia  will  flourish  not,  nor  palest  phlox 
One  might  have  hope  left  for  a  row  of  box. 

Why  is  it  that  some  silent  places  thrill 

With  elfin  comradeship,  and  others  fill 

The  heart  with  sickening  loneliness  ?     My  breast 

Seems  hollow  for  great  emptiness,  unrest 

Casting  my  eyes  about  my  garden  where 

I  still  must  live,  breathing  its  lifeless  air. 

Why  should  I  have  a  garden  anyway  ? 

I  have  so  many  friends  who  pass  the  day 

In  streets  or  squares,  or  little  barren  courts, 

I  fancy  there  are  gardens  of  all  sorts, 

Far  worse  than  mine.     And  who  has  this  delight : 

There's  my  syringa  with  its  blooms  of  white ! 

It  flourishes  in  my  garden  !     In  this  brief 


THE  GARDEN 

Season  of  blossoms  and  unfolding  leaf 
What  if  I  like  my  garden  not  but  love 
The  oak  tree  and  the  lilac  tree  thereof, 
And  hide  my  face,  lest  one  my  rapture  guess, 
Amid  the  white  syringa's  loveliness  ? 


133] 


THE  TAVERN 

(For  my  daughter  Madeline) 

Nothing  disturbed  my  night  of  sleep, 

I  wonder  that  I  ever  woke 

It  was  so  heavy,  was  so  deep 

I  scarce  had  heard  the  thunder-stroke. 

So  what  was  drinking,  feasting,  talking 

By  guests  who  came  and  guests  who  went, 

Or  those  who  spent  the  time  in  walking 

The  halls  and  rooms  in  argument 

About  the  Tavern  ?     Some  declared 

No  better  Tavern  could  be  built. 

And  others  called  it  a  deception, 

Its  purest  gold  but  thinnest  gilt, 

A  cruel  cheat  considering 

No  other  Tavern  gave  reception 

To  folks  who  might  be  wayfaring 

Anywhere  in  the  whole  wide  land. 
i 

I  woke  a  stranger  to  it  all, 

But  quickly  grew  to  understand 

The  ways  and  customs  which  prevailed : 

Those  who  won  favor,  those  who  failed ; 

What  feasting  rooms  had  echoed  laughter ; 

[134] 


THE  TAVERN 

What  kisses  stolen  in  what  hall ; 
What  corners  where  the  old  had  cried ; 
What  stairways  where  the  breathless  bride 
Paused  for  a  moment  just  to  toss 
Among  the  bridesmaids  her  bouquet ; 
What  rooms  where  men  in  work  or  play 
Approved  or  cursed  for  gain  or  loss 
The  Tavern's  roof-tree,  roof  and  rafter. 

Then  when  I  woke,  as  I  have  said, 
Save  a  few  children  there  was  none 
Who  was  not  older  far  than  I. 
Many  were  trembling  gray  of  head ; 
The  strong  walked  forth  in  rain  or  sun 
And  seemed  all  danger  to  defy. 
All  welcomed  me  and  called  me  fair, 
And  told  me  strange  events  which  passed 
Around  the  Tavern  while  I  slept. 
Soon  there  were  changes.     Scarce  aware 
Of  their  departure  many  stept 
Out  of  the  door  and  seemed  to  cast 
Their  fortunes  elsewhere,  but  as  fast 
New  guests  came  in  to  take  the  places 
Of  those  who  left.     And  through  the  day 
I  lost  the  old,  remembering  faces 
Freshly  arrived.     When  it  was  noon 
I  knew  what  things  were  opportune, 
I  had  become  one  of  the  crowd 

[135] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

In  all  their  ways  initiate : 

Knew  what  their  love  was,  what  their  hate, 

Myself  stole  kisses  in  the  hall, 

And  saw  the  old  who  sat  and  cried 

In  corners,  saw  the  rosy  bride 

Pause  for  a  moment  just  to  toss 

Among  the  bridesmaids  her  bouquet, 

Where  I  stood  best  man  to  the  groom. 

Was  myself  of  the  noisy  room, 

Where  men  in  work  or  men  in  play 

Approve  or  curse  the  gain  or  loss. 

Toward  afternoon  I  seemed  to  feel 
More  people  knew  me  than  I  knew. 
Then  it  was  good  to  meet  with  you. 
I  saw  you  as  you  left  the  stair. 
And  who  were  you  ?     I  do  not  dare 
To  praise  your  brow,  or  paint  your  hair, 
Your  eyes  how  gray,  or  were  they  blue  ? 
A  pain  strikes  through  me  if  I  let 
The  full  strength  of  my  love  have  sway. 
I  only  know  I  can  forget 
All  others  who  had  gone  away 
Remembering  our  happy  day 
Together  in  the  house  and  yard. 
It  was  to  you  all  fair  and  new. 
You  listened  with  such  rapt  regard 
To  all  the  stories  of  the  guests, 
[136] 


THE  TAVERN 

And  what  had  been  their  interests. 
And  was  the  Tavern  just  the  same 
As  it  had  been  before  you  came, 
You  asked  me,  and  I  answered,  yes, 
No  change,  my  dear,  not  even  the  name. 

No  change,  except  the  people  change, 

And  change  they  do,  I  must  confess. 

In  truth  a  few  alone  remain 

Of  those  who  lived  here  when  I  first 

Entered  the  door  there,  most  are  strange. 

And  as  I  rose  much  earlier 

Than  you  arose,  you  may  suppose 

I  shall  grow  drowsy,  yet  who  knows 

Before  you  do,  and  leave  the  stir 

The  dancing,  feasting,  just  to  creep 

Back  for  another  night  of  sleep. 

I'd  like  so  well  to  stay  awake 

And  watch  the  dancing  for  your  sake. 

It  may  be,  though  it  scarce  may  be  — 

No  one  remained  awake  for  me. 

You  cannot  fail  to  find  the  bed 
When  you  are  sleepy,  but  no  doubt 
It  will  be  black  with  the  light  out. 
Come  dear,  that  sleep  is  loveliest 
Where  side  by  side  two  lovers  rest, 
That  sweetens  sleep  —  it  may  be  best ! 

[137] 


O  SAEPE  MECUM 

(For  E.  J.  S.) 

Edward  !   you  knew  the  city  and  you  knew 
Where  dancing  and  where  music  were, 
And  every  hall  and  theatre, 
And  every  green  purlieu 

Of  gardens  where  beneath  the  vines  and  trees 
One  might  sip  beer  and  be  consoled 
By  music  mixed  with  talk,  behold 
The  summer's  devotees 

About  the  tables,  idling  June  away. 
And  you  knew  chicory  and  cress, 
With  French  or  Mayonnaise  could  dress 
A  salad,  growing  gay 

As  you  poured  Burgundy  or  Rhenish  wine, 
Or  had  a  sirloin  brought  to  see 
If  it  were  ripe,  the  recipe 
For  broiling  it,  to  dine 

Thereon  in  fitting  state,  the  waiter  took 
And  bowed  in  admiration,  then 
You  snapped  your  silver  case  again 
And  from  the  holders  shook 


O  SAEPE  MECUM 

Such  cigarettes  as  Turkish  grandees  smoke, 
And  blew  the  perfumed  incense  forth, 
Descanting  on  our  life,  the  worth 
Of  lawyers,  noted  folk  : 

Of  judges,  politicians,  governors, 
Until  the  dinner  came  at  last. 
And  there  amid  the  rich  repast 
We  poor  solicitors 

Gloried  in  life,  and  ruddy  faced  would  laugh 

At  any  mishap,  any  fate 

That  we  could  fancy  might  await, 

And  glorying  would  quaff 

Incredible  goblets  of  the  quickening  juice, 
With  blackest  coffee  topping  all, 
And  afterwards  a  cordial  — 
Nothing  we  could  abuse 

And  nothing  hurt  us,  Edward !     It  was  well 
We  lived,  I  think,  and  memories  stored : 
For  now  I  am  a  little  bored 
With  the  invariable 

And  settled  round  of  nights  and  days  wherein 
I  must  have  sleep  to  work,  and  keep 
Abstemious  to  work  and  sleep  — 
While  you  long  since  have  been 

[139] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

The  tangled  lion  of  a  woman's  hair 
Who  reads  you  novels  and  the  news, 
And  mends  you,  tends  you,  even  brews 
Your  broth  and  gives  you  care 

In  these  dyspeptic  mornings.     As  for  me 
The  cafes,  gardens  haunt  me  yet. 
I  go  about  as  one  who  can't  forget 
A  dead  felicity  — 

The  Bismarck,  Rector's  where  I  enter  not 
The  music  all  is  changed  —  and  where 
No  faces  that  we  knew  are  there, 
And  where  we  are  forgot. 


140] 


MALACHY  DEGAN 

Malachy,  you  stand  a  referee  to  judge 
Under  a  torrent  of  blue  light 
The  naked  pugilists  who  fight, 
Grim  faces  with  a  smudge 

Of  blood,  or  on  the  sliding  arms  or  backs, 
There  on  a  platform  roped,  in  palls 
Of  smoke  to  the  roof  of  Tattersall's, 
And  where  the  iterant  cracks 

Of  matches  struck  for  lights  prick  through  the  hum 
Of  voices  over  toned  by  cries 
Of  "Finish  him,"  "Look  at  his  glassy  eyes," 
"That  sounded  like  a  drum." 

When  the  timekeeper's  gong  went  clang  !   clang ! 
And  a  hush  came  over  us,  as  then 
Bath  robes  slipped  off,  the  fighting  men 
Out  of  their  corners  sprang, 

And  in  between  the  tangled  arms  and  legs, 
And  clinches  which  you  break,  you  glide 
Red-haired,  athletic,  watchful  eyed, 
And  like  a  lager  keg's 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

Round  fulness  is  your  chest,  your  arms  all  bare, 

Coatless,  a  figure  memorable. 

You  should  not  be  forgotten  —  well 

And  if  it  be  to  dare 

The  censure  of  a  taste  American 
To  celebrate  your  courage,  wit, 
I  write  you  down  what  here  is  writ : 
A  referee,  a  man ! 

A  judge  who  loved  the  game  and  whose  decree 
Had  no  taint  on  it,  was  more  pure 
Than  much  of  our  judicature, 
Of  every  knavery  free. 

And  what  is  here  to  shock  or  shake  such  nerves 
As  children's  are,  delicate  women's  ? 
There  goes  the  short  hook  of  Fitzsimmons, 
And  Thome  a  moment  swerves, 

Then  topples  over,  and  lies  quiet  while 
You  count  from  one  slowly  to  nine. 
And  Thorne  lies  there  without  a  sign 
Of  life,  but  with  a  smile 

After  a  time  gets  up,  and  reels  across 
The  ring  to  his  own  corner,  there 
Flops  wobbly  in  his  corner's  chair, 
And  wonders  at  his  loss. 


MALACHY  DEGAN 

While  full  ten  thousand  cheer,  and  watch  you  shake 
The  master  hand,  the  general's. 
Such  was  our  sport  at  Tattersall's 
Before  the  Puritan  rake 

Combed  through  the  city.     Now  the  sport  is  dead, 
And  you  are  dust  these  several  years. 
And  we  who  drift  to  stale  careers, 
And  live  along  and  tread 

The  old  deserted  ways  we  loved  and  knew, 
Ask  sometimes  how  it  was  a  cough 
Could  seize  upon  you,  take  you  off  — 
A  lad  as  strong  as  you  ? 


MY  DOG  PONTO 

If  I  say  to  you  "Come,  Ponto,  want  some  meat?" 
You  laugh  in  your  dog-way  and  bark  your  "Yes." 
And  if  I  say  "Shall  we  go  walking"  or 
"Stand  up,  nice  Ponto,"  then  you  stand  up,  or 
If  I  say  to  you  "Lie  down"  you  lie  down. 
You  know  what  meat  is,  what  it  is  to  walk. 
You  see  the  meat  perhaps  or  get  an  image 
Of  scampering  on  the  street  or  chasing  dogs 
While  sniffing  in  fresh  air,  exploring  bushes. 
Upon  these  levels  our  minds  meet  at  once, 
As  if  they  were  the  same  stuff  for  such  thoughts. 
But  if  I  look  into  your  eye  and  say : 
I'll  read  to  you  a  chapter  on  harmonics, 
Here's  mad  Spinoza's  close  wrought  demonstration 
Of  God  as  substance,  here  is  Isaac  Newton's 
Great  book  on  gravitation,  here's  a  thesis 
Upon  the  logos,  of  the  word  made  man. 
Or  if  I  say  let's  talk  about  my  soul  — 
Since  I  have  talked  to  yours  in  terms  of  meat  — 
Which  sails  out  like  a  spider  on  its  thread 
Through  mathematics,  music,  —  look  at  you 
You  merely  lie  there  with  half  open  eye, 
And  thump  your  tail  quite  feebly  just  because, 
[H4] 


MY  DOG  PONTO 

And  for  no  other  reason  save  I'm  talking, 
And  I'm  your  master  and  you're  fond  of  me, 
And  through  affection  would  no  doubt  be  glad 
To  know  what  I  am  saying,  as  'twere  meat 
I  might  be  saying.     But  I  know  a  way 
To  make  you  howl  for  things  not  understood : 
It  makes  you  howl  to  hear  my  new  Victrola 
With  a  Beethoven  record,  why  is  this  ? 
Perhaps  this  is  to  you  a  maddening  token 
Of  realms  that  lie  above  the  realms  of  meat, 
And  torture  you  because  they  have  suggestions 
Of  things  beyond  you. 

But  in  any  case, 

Dear  Ponto,  if  you  were  an  infidel 
You  might  say  "What's  harmonics  ?   they're  a  joke." 
"And  who's  Spinoza,  Newton,  they  are  myths." 
"And  mathematics,  music,  can  you  eat  them," 
"For  what  you  cannot  eat  has  no  existence." 
Deny  them  as  you  will  these  spheres  of  thought 
Lie  as  the  steps  of  mountains  over  you. 
They  wait  for  you  to  gain  them,  you  can  find  them 
By  rising  to  them,  then  how  real  they  are ! 
As  real  as  scampering  when  I  take  a  walk. 
But  are  they  all  ?     How  do  I  know  what  spheres 
Of  life  lie  all  around  me  and  above  me, 
Just  waiting  not  for  me,  but  till  I  climb 
And  rest  awhile  and  take  their  meaning  in. 
L  [  145  1 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

How  do  I  know  what  hand  plays  a  Victrola 
With  records  greater  than  Beethoven's  song, 
Which  make  me  howl  as  piteously  as  you  ? 
But  here  again  our  minds  meet  on  a  level : 
I  know  no  more  than  you  do  why  I  howl ; 
Nor  what  it  is  that  makes  me  howl,  nor  why, 
Though  not  content  with  meat,  I  want  to  know, 
And  keep  as  all  my  own  this  higher  music. 


THE  GOSPEL  OF  MARK 

How  long  have  you  been  waiting  ?     Not  so  long  ? 

I'm  glad  of  that.     You  found  the  place  at  once. 

Well,  there's  the  Campus  Martius,  when  you're  there 

You  see  above  this  Collis  Hortulorum, 

A  good  place  for  two  men  like  us  to  meet : 

Here's  where  luxurious  souls  have  their  abodes. 

That's  Sallust's  garden  there.     They  do  not  care 

So  much  about  us  as  some  others  do. 

There  is  a  tolerance  comes  from  being  rich, 

An  urbane  soul  is  fashioned  by  a  villa. 

Our  faith  is  not  to  these  a  wicked  thing, 

A  deadly  superstition  as  some  deem  it. 

But  Mark,  my  son,  there's  Rome  below  you  there  — 

What  temples,  arches,  under  the  full  moon ! 

Here  let  us  sit  beside  this  chestnut  tree, 

And  while  the  soft  wind  blows  out  of  the  sea 

Let's  finish  up  our  talks.     You  must  know  all 

Wherewith  to  write  the  story  ere  I  die 

Beneath  the  wrath  of  Nero.     See  that  light, 

Faint  like  a  little  candle  —  I  passed  there. 

That's  one  of  our  poor  men,  they  make  us  lamps 

Wherewith  to  light  the  streets  and  Nero's  gardens. 

We  shall  be  lamps  they'll  wish  to  snuff  in  time. 

[147] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

We  met  to-night  at  one  Silvanus'  house. 
And  I  was  telling  them  about  the  night 
When  in  Gethsemane  you  followed  Him, 
Having  a  cloth  around  your  naked  body. 
And  how  you  laid  hold  on  him,  left  the  cloth 
And  fled.     But  when  you  write  this  you  can  say 
"A  certain  young  man,"  leaving  out  your  name, 
You  may  not  wish  to  have  it  known  'twas  you 
Who  ran  away,  as  I  would  like  to  hide 
How  I  fell  into  sleep  and  failed  to  watch, 
And  afterwards  declared  I  knew  Him  not : 
But  as  for  me  omit  no  thing.     The  world 
Will  gain  for  seeing  me  rise  out  of  weakness 
To  strength,  and  out  of  fear  to  boldness.     Time 
Has  wrought  his  wonders  in  me,  I  am  rock, 
Let  hell  beat  on  me,  I  shall  stand  from  now ! 

Then  don't  forget  the  first  man  that  he  healed. 
There's  deep  significance  in  this,  my  son, 
That  first  of  all  he'd  take  an  unclean  spirit 
And  cast  it  out.     Then  second  was  my  mother 
Cured  of  her  fever,  just  as  you  might  say : 
Be  rid  of  madness,  things  that  tear  and  plague, 
Then  cool  you  of  the  fever  of  vain  life. 
But  don't  forget  to  write  how  he  would  say 
"Tell  no  man  of  this,"  say  that  and  no  more. 
Though  I  may  think  he  said  it  lest  the  crowds 
That  followed  him  would  take  his  strength  for  healing, 

[148] 


THE  GOSPEL  OF  MARK 

And  leave  no  strength  for  words,  let  be  and  write 
"Tell  no  man  of  this"  simply.     For  you  see 
These  madmen  quieted,  these  lepers  cleaned 
Had  soon  to  die,  all  now  are  dead,  perhaps. 
And  with  them  ends  their  good.     But  what  he  said 
Remains  for  generations  yet  to  come,  with  power 
To  heal  and  heal.     My  son,  preserve  your  notes, 
Of  what  I've  told  you,  even  above  your  life. 
Make  many  copies  lest  one  script  be  lost. 
I  shall  not  to  another  tell  it  all 
As  I  have  told  it  you. 

But  as  for  me 

What  merit  have  I  that  I  saw  and  said 
"Thou    art   the    Christ?"      One    sees    the   thing    he 

sees. 

That  is  a  matter  of  the  eye  —  behold 
What  is  the  eye  ?     Is  there  an  Eye  Power  which 
Produces  eyes,  a  primal  source  of  seeing, 
An  ocean  of  beholding,  as  the  ocean 
Makes  rivers,  streams  and  pools,  so  does  this  Power 
Make  eyes  ?     You  take  an  egg  and  keep  it  warm 
About  a  day,  then  break  the  shell  and  look : 
You'll  find  dark  spots  on  either  side  of  what 
Will  be  the  head  in  time,  these  will  be  eyes 
In  season,  but  just  now  they  cannot  see, 
Although  the  Eye  Power  back  of  them  can  see 
Both  what  they  are  and  how  to  make  them  eyes 

[149] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

By  giving  them  its  quality  and  strength. 

And  all  the  time  while  these  dark  spots  emerge 

From  yolk  to  eyes,  this  Rome  is  here  no  less, 

This  moon,  these  stars,  this  wonder !     Take  a  child 

It  stares  at  flowers  and  tears  them,  or  again 

It  claws  the  whiteness  of  its  mother's  breast, 

Sees  nothing  but  the  things  beneath  its  nose. 

The  world  around  it  lies  here  to  be  seen, 

And  will  be  seen  from  boyhood  on  to  age 

In  different  guises,  aspects,  richnesses 

According  to  the  man,  for  every  man 

Sees  different  from  his  fellow.     What's  an  eye  ? 

I  say  not  what's  an  eye,  but  what  is  here 

For  eyes  to  see  ?     What  wonders  in  that  sky 

Beyond  my  eye !     What  living  things  concealed 

Beneath  my  feet  in  grass  or  moss  or  slime, 

As  small  to  crickets  as  they  are  to  us ! 

For  Nero  at  the  Circus  holds  a  ruby 

Before  his  eye  to  give  his  eye  more  sight 

To  see  the  games  and  tortures.     So  I  say 

There  was  no  merit  in  me  when  I  said 

"Thou  art  the  Christ." 

Let's  think  of  eyes  this  way 
The  lawyers  said  there's  nothing  in  this  fellow. 
His  family  beheld  no  wonder  in  him. 
Have  Mary  Magdalene  and  I  invented 
These  words,  this  story  ?  —  who  are  we  to  do  so, — 

[15°] 


THE  GOSPEL  OF  MARK 

A  fallen  woman  and  a  fisherman  ! 

Or  did  this  happen  ?     Did  we  see  these  things  ? 

Did  Mary  see  him  risen  and  did  I  ? 

Were  other  eyes  still  dark  spots  on  the  yolk, 

And  were  our  eyes  full  grown  and  did  we  see  ? 

Is  this  a  madman's  world  where  I  can  talk, 

And  have  you  write  for  centuries  to  read 

And  play  the  fool  with  them  ?     Or  do  all  things 

Of  spirit,  as  of  stars,  of  spring  and  growth 

Proceed  in  order,  under  law  to  ends  ? 

No,  Mark,  my  son,  this  is  the  truth,  so  write, 

Preserve  this  story  taken  from  my  lips. 

My  work  is  almost  done.     Rome  is  the  end 

Of  all  my  labors,  I  have  faith  The  Eye 

Will  give  me  other  eyes  for  other  worlds ! 

Why  should  I  not  believe  this  ?     Not  all  seasons 
Are  for  unfolding.     In  the  winter  time 
You  cannot  see  the  miracle  of  birth, 
Of  germinating  seeds,  of  blossoming. 
Why  not  then  that  one  time  for  seeing  Death 
Go  up  like  mist  before  the  rising  sun  ? 
And  in  this  single  instance  of  our  Lord 
Arising  from  the  grave,  see  all  men  rise, 
And  all  men's  souls  discovered  in  his  soul, 
Their  quality  and  essence,  strength  made  clear  ? 
And  why  not  I  the  seer  of  these  things  ? 
Why  should  there  be  another  and  not  I  ? 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

And  I  declare  to  you  that  untold  millions 

In  centuries  untold  will  live  and  die 

By  these  words  which  you  write,  as  I  have  told  them. 

And  nation  after  nation  will  be  moulded, 

As  heated  wax  is  moulded,  by  these  words. 

And  spirits  in  their  inmost  power  will  feel 

Change  and  regeneration  through  them  —  well,  what 

then  ? 

Do  you  say  God  is  living,  that  this  world, 
These  constellations,  move  by  law,  that  all 
This  miracle  of  life  and  light  is  held 
In  harmony,  and  that  the  soul  of  man 
Moves  not  in  order,  but  that  it's  allowed 
To  prove  an  anarch  to  itself,  sole  thing 
That  turns  upon  itself,  sole  thing  that's  shown 
The  path  that  leads  no  whither  ?  is  allowed 
To  feed  on  falsehood  ?  that  it's  allowed 
To  wander  lawless  to  its  ruin,  fooled 
By  what  it  craves,  by  what  it  feels,  by  eyes 
That  swear  the  truth  of  what  they  see  ?  by  words 
Which  you  will  write  from  words  I  have  affirmed  ? 
And  do  you  say  that  Life  shall  prove  the  foe 
Of  life,  and  Law  of  law  ?     Or  do  you  say 
The  child's  eyes  see  reality  which  see 
The  poppy  blossoms  or  the  mother's  breast, 
And  this  Rome  and  these  stars  do  not  exist 
Because  the  child's  eyes  cannot  compass  them, 
And  get  their  image  ?     Shall  we  trust  our  vision 


THE  GOSPEL  OF  MARK 

Mounting  to  higher  things,  or  only  trust 

Those  things  which  all  have  seen  except  the  souls 

Who  have  not  soared,  or  risen  to  the  gift 

Of  seeing  what  seemed  walking  trees  grow  clear 

As  men  or  angels  ?     No,  it  cannot  be. 

Man's  soul,  the  chiefest  flower  of  all  we  know, 

Is  not  the  toy  of  Malice  or  of  Sport. 

It  is  not  set  apart  to  be  betrayed, 

Or  gulled  to  its  undoing,  left  to  dash 

Its  hopeless  head  against  this  rock's  exception, 

No  water  for  its  thirst,  no  Life  to  feed  it, 

No  law  to  guide  it,  though  this  universe 

Is  under  Law,  no  God  to  mark  its  steps, 

Except  the  God  of  worlds  and  suns  and  stars, 

Who  loves  it  not,  loves  worlds  and  suns  and  stars, 

And  them  alone,  and  leaves  the  soul  to  pass 

Unfathered  —  lets  me  have  a  madman's  dream 

And  gives  it  such  reality  that  I 

Take  fire  and  light  the  world,  convincing  eyes 

Left  foolish  to  believe.     It  cannot  be.  ... 

Go  write  what  I  have  told  you,  come  what  will 
I'm  going  to  the  catacombs  to  pray. 


[153 


MARSYAS 

Pallas  Athena  in  an  hour  of  ease 
From  guarding  states  and  succoring  the  wise, 
Pressed  wistfully  her  lips  against  a  flute 
Made  by  a  Phrygian  youth  from  resonant  wood 
Cut  near  Sangarius.     Upon  a  bank 
Made  sweet  by  daisies  and  anemone 
She  sat  with  godly  wisdom  exercised 
Blowing  her  breath  against  the  stubborn  tube 
That  it  might  answer  and  vibrate  in  song. 
But  while  she  played,  down-looking,  she  beheld 
A  serpent's  eyes,  which  by  the  water's  edge 
Lay  coiled  among  the  reeds,  as  if  aware 
Of  the  divinity  that  filled  the  place. 
Then  Athena  saw  her  image  in  the  cove, 
Where  like  a  silver  mirror,  motionless 
Sangarius  lay,,  and  seeing  her  own  face 
Thus  suddenly,  was  stricken  with  surprise 
Of  her  fair  forehead  wrinkled,  and  her  lips 
Pursed  and  distorted  as  she  strove  to  curb 
The  resisting  instrument.     So  with  a  smile, 
A  little  laugh,  which  brought  her  beauty  back, 
And  gilded  like  a  gradual  burst  of  sun 
The  water  where  the  charmed  serpent  lay 

[154] 


MARSYAS 

Lifting  his  head  up  to  the  living  warmth, 
She  threw  the  flute  down,  and  Olympus  way 
Vanished,  from  sight. 

Marsyas  all  the  while 

Beneath  an  oak's  shade  by  the  water's  edge 
Had  drowsed  voluptuously,  and  heard  the  notes, 
Dreaming  some  shepherd  youth  who  watched  his  sheep 
Upon  a  near-by  hill  which  to  the  swale 
Sloped  in  luxuriance,  upon  a  reed 
His  idle  fancies  loosened  from  the  stops. 
But  when  Athena  passed  him,  since  he  heard 
A  roar  of  wings,  as  when  a  flock  of  quail 
Up-fly  the  hunter's  step,  he  woke  to  find 
The  forest  silent  and  the  music  gone. 
Then  straying  toward  the  rushes,  he  espied 
The  flute  upon  the  golden  sands,  and  took  it 
And  tried  his  lips  upon  it,  where  the  lips 
Of  Pallas  Athena  left  it  fragrant,  moist, 
And  with  a  soul,  which  to  the  artless  breath 
Of  the  rude  Satyr  gave  melodious  speech. 
So  thinking  that  the  music  was  his  own 
And  that  the  flute  was  but  a  worthless  wood 
Save  that  it  made  his  genius  manifest, 
And  swollen  with  conceit  Marsyas  sent 
A  word  of  challenge  to  the  Delphic  god, 
Apollo  of  the  cithara,  for  trial 
Of  skill  in  music,  saying  who  should  prove 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

The  victor  might  do  with  the  other  what 
Pleased  him  to  do,  and  let  the  Muses  judge. 

But  when  Athena  heard  Apollo  laugh, 
Where  the  nine  Muses  gossiped  of  the  dare 
Which  Marsyas  uttered,  for  the  lower  meadows 
Of  flowered  Olympus  whispered  of  the  thing 
In  jest  and  quip,  and  knowing  that  her  soul 
Still  echoed  in  the  flute,  but  would  anon 
Fade  from  it  as  the  perfume  from  a  girdle 
Tinct  by  the  touch  of  Aphrodite's  hand, 
Spoke  to  Apollo :   "Grant  a  little  time 
Wherein  the  Satyr  may  improve  his  skill." 
To  which  the  Muses  nodded  'mid  their  smiles. 
But  yet  Apollo  gave  assent,  though  teased 
By  reason  of  their  chatter  and  the  thought 
Hid  in  Athena's  word  that  any  respite 
Granted  the  Satyr  could  prosper  his  success. 

Meanwhile  Marsyas  waited  for  the  day 
Appointed  of  Apollo.     Near  Sangarius 
And  through  the  woodlands  tireless  with  the  flute 
Sometimes  in  imitative  harmony 
Mocking  the  sound  of  fluttering  leaves,  and  now 
The  musical  winds  that  blow  in  early  spring 
Around  a  peak  of  dancing  asphodel 
Where  the  sea  warms  them,  and  at  other  times 
The  little  waves  that  patter  on  the  sands 
[156] 


MARSYAS 

Of  old  Sangarius  rich  in  numerous  flags. 

And  once  he  strove  with  music's  alchemy 

To  turn  to  sound  the  sunlight  of  the  morn 

Which  fills  the  senses  as  illuminate  dew 

Quickens  the  ovule  of  the  tiger-flower. 

Again  he  sang  the  sorrow  of  his  youth 

When  a  wild  nymph  after  one  day  of  bliss 

Fled  him  while  sleeping.     And  again  he  beat 

The  rhythm  lying  at  the  root  of  life 

Which  marks  the  whirling  planets.     And  Apollo 

Hearing  betimes  a  note  of  purest  tone 

Fall  like  a  star,  betrayed  his  wonderment  — 

Whereat  the  muses  vexed  him  with  their  smiles 

And  whisperings  to  each  other.     But  Apollo 

Could  sense  the  Satyr's  waning  skill,  which  dulled 

With  its  employment,  as  Athena's  soul 

Died  from  the  flute,  although  the  Satyr  knew  not 

Each  day  of  waiting  doomed  him : 

Then  at  last 

The  day  dawned  for  the  trial  of  their  skill, 
And  Marsyas  came  bearing  the  hollow  flute  — 
For  all  had  left  it  of  Athena's  soul. 
Then  on  Sangarius'  wooded  banks  the  muses 
To  judge  assembled,  fair,  majestical. 
With  arms  entwined  some  close  together  stood, 
Some  half-reclined  upon  the  flowery  grass, 
But  all  bore  in  their  eyes  the  light  of  mirth 

[157] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

Suppressed,  half-hidden.     Then,  for  that  Euterpe 

Was  mistress  of  the  flute,  since  it  was  deemed 

Fair  to  the  Satyr  that  the  contest  be 

Judged  by  the  flute,  gave  signal  to  begin. 

Whereat  Apollo  struck  the  cithara 

To  test  the  strings,  and  all  the  wood  was  hushed, 

Awed  by  the  magic  of  its  harmony. 

But  when  Marsyas  blew  upon  the  flute 

A  fear  coursed  through  him  as  his  wonder  rose 

Whether  Apollo  had  bewitched  its  soul 

To  such  discordance,  or  its  utterance, 

Such  as  he  knew  it,  when  compared  with  the  god's 

Was  so  unmusical.     Yet  he  dare  not  fail 

The  contest,  so  they  waged  it  to  the  end, 

While  the  sweet  muses  now  grown  pitiful 

No  longer  smiled,  but  turned  their  heads  away 

In  sorrow  for  Marsyas,  for  his  shame 

And  for  the  fate  to  follow. 

So  at  last 

With  one  accord  the  muses  rose  and  looked 
With  eyes  significant  upon  Apollo, 
Who  angered  by  the  Satyr's  swollen  pride 
And  monstrous  failure,  had  become  a  will 
Of  resolute  retribution.     But  the  muses, 
Because  they  feel  for  those  who  trying  lose, 
Even  as  a  mother  for  her  crippled  son 
Whom  the  sound-footed  distance  in  the  race, 


MARSYAS 

Hastened  away  lest  they  behold  the  thing 
That  came  to  pass.     And  flinging  far  the  flute 
Marsyas  shrieked  and  sank  upon  the  earth. 

Whereat  Apollo  seized  his  wretched  form 

And  lifting  him  up,  with  strips  of  laurel  bark 

Bound  the  poor  Satyr  to  a  rugged  oak 

And  flayed  him  alive,  and  took  the  Satyr's  skin 

And  hung  it  in  a  cave,  and  turned  his  blood 

To  water,  whence  the  river  Marsyas 

That  from  the  cave  flows  onward  to  this  day. 


[159 


WORLDS   BACK  OF  WORLDS 

This  was  the  world :   It  was  a  house 
With  a  cool  hallway  end  to  end 
Where  buckets,  pans  and  dippers  hung, 
And  coats  that  in  the  breezes  swung ; 
And  eaves  in  which  'twas  good  to  browse 
On  books  stored  in  a  musty  box. 
Along  the  walks  were  lilac  boughs, 
And  by  the  windows  hollyhocks. 
And  there  were  fields  down  to  the  hills 
Which  marked  the  earth's  far  boundary ; 
A  church-spire  at  the  roadway's  bend, 
And  barns  and  cribs  and  twinkling  mills, 
And  neighbor  friends  like  Mrs.  Gray, 
And  endless  days  of  dream  and  play. 
It  was  a  world  so  guarded,  safe, 
So  cherished  by  a  God-watched  sky 
Seeing  the  summers  come  and  pass, 
A  world  so  quiet  it  appeared 
Like  to  the  mimic  world  ensphered 
By  witchery  of  the  old  field  glass 
Which  from  an  uncle's  drawer  I  took 
Upon  the  distant  hills  to  look. 
[160] 


WORLDS   BACK  OF  WORLDS 

You  know  not  then  that  worlds  not  dead 
Lie  back  of  you  and  bide  their  chance 
To  seize  your  world  of  ignorance : 
There  was  an  opening  in  the  ceiling 
Above  the  kitchen  where  the  man 
Sat  humming  to  himself  at  night 
Amid  the  enshadowed  candle-light, 
And  played  on  his  accordion 
Happy,  unconscious  and  alone. 
There  full  of  mischief  would  I  lie 
And  watch  him  through  the  ceiling's  hole, 
And  laugh  for  thought  of  elfish  tricks, 
Of  whispering  words  or  dropping  sticks 
To  fright  his  well  contented  soul. 
Sometimes  I  think  there  is  an  eye 
Which  is  not  God's  that  spies  upon  us ; 
That  other  worlds  may  lie  about  us 
Our  fathers  or  our  mothers  lived, 
Where  Forces  lurk  and  laugh  and  wait. 

Here  then  was  my  world's  fair  estate  — 
For  so  I  knew  it  —  could  it  be 
Disturbed  or  wrecked  ?     I  never  thought 
That  change  or  loss  could  come  to  me, 
With  God  above  the  church's  spire.  .  .  . 

But  what  are  all  these  April  dreams  ? 
Less  tangible  the  landscape  seems ; 
M  [161! 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

The  windmills,  barns  and  houses  swim 
In  a  sphered  ether,  wheeling,  dim. 
Red  cattle  on  green  meadows  pass 
Across  a  belt  of  bluest  sky 
Like  objects  in  the  old  field  glass. 
The  chickens  stalk  about  the  yard 
Like  phantom  things  in  my  regard 
And  songs  and  cries  and  voices  sound 
Like  muffled  echoes  from  the  ground. 
Stones  and  dead  sticks  crawl  and  move ; 
And  bones  that  through  the  winter  lay 
Something  of  living  power  betray. 
I  sink  in  all  things  dizzily, 
Made  one  with  nature,  all  I  see, 
Until  I  have  no  way  to  prove 
My  separate  identity. 
Yet  death  is  what  ?     Why,  death  is  this  : 
Something  that  comes  but  is  far  off. 
They  worry  sometimes  for  my  cough. 
I  know  they  watch  me,  know  they  cry, 
But  what  can  wreck  my  earth  or  sky  ? 

The  doctor  comes  now  every  day 
And  with  my  father  sits  and  talks, 
Or  stands  about  the  garden  walks. 
One  day  I  hear  them  :   "It  appears 
Sometimes  in  ten  or  twenty  years 
As  madness  or  paralysis. 
[162! 


WORLDS  BACK  OF  WORLDS 

Sometimes  it  passes,  leaves  a  scar 

And  never  troubles  one  again. 

You  say  you  had  this  in  the  war  ? 

It's  hit  your  boy  as  phthisis, 

Also  I  think  he's  going  blind." 

I  saw  my  father  trembling  wind 

Some  plucked  grass  round  and  round  his  hand. 

They  noticed  me,  walked  further  on 

And  left  me  dreaming  where  I  sat. 

Some  years  since  that  day  now  are  gone. 
I  have  no  world  now,  none  but  night. 
My  father's  world  lay  back  of  mine 
And  wrecked  my  world  so  guarded,  safe, 
So  cherished  by  a  God-watched  sky 
Which  looked  on  summers  rise  and  pass, 
So  like  an  image  caught  and  held 
By  witchery  of  the  old  field  glass. 


163 


THE  PRINCESS'   SONG 

"  Blow,  blow,  thou  wind, 
Blow  Conrad's  hat  away, 
Its  rolling  do  not  stay, 
Till  I  have  combed  my  hair, 
And  tied  it  up  behind." 

Blow,  blow,  thou  wind, 
Blow  Conrad's  love  away, 
My  prince  will  come  to-day. 
Let  him  but  find  me  fair, 
And  searching  find. 

The  queen  my  mother  grieves 
For  hopes  that  went  astray. 
Blow  thou  my  grief  away, 
Among  the  April  flags, 
Among  the  dancing  leaves. 

Fill  thou  their  golden  wings, 
And  make  the  great  clouds  fly 
Like  swans  across  the  sky, 
Above  the  mountain  crags 
Where  the  young  eaglet  clings. 


THE  PRINCESS'  SONG 

Blow  —  yet  the  mad  wind  dies 
Among  the  flags  and  ferns. 
And  Conrad  still  returns, 
Ere  I  have  bound  my  hair, 
Or  dried  my  eyes. 

Blow,  blow,  thou  wind  — 
Blow  Conrad's  love  away. 
But  since  it  will  not  stay, 
Blow  thou  afar  my  care 
And  make  me  kind. 

As  even,  lad,  thou  art. 

Blow,  blow,  thou  wind,  but  since 

Vainly  I  wait  the  prince 

Come,  Conrad,  loose  my  hair,  — 

Thou  loyal  heart ! 


165  1 


THE  FURIES 


But  you  must  act.     And  therein  lies  the  way 
Of  freedom  from  the  Furies.     You  must  burn 
The  substance  of  your  being,  if  you  stay 
The  impetus  of  life  you  will  not  learn 
The  simples  of  salvation.     Go  pluck  off 
A  serpent  from  Alecto's  head  and  laugh 
Exhilarate  with  its  poison.     If  you  scoff 
You  will  perceive.     You  cannot  love  the  staff 
You  have  not  scorned.     You  cannot  weigh  the  act 
You  have  not  lived,  the  fear  you  did  not  prove. 
Your  soul  was  made  to  focus  and  extract 
Through  action  every  hatred,  every  love. 
Pour  out  yourself  if  you  would  know  release 
From  what  the  Furies  do  to  spoil  your  peace. 

II 

Ambition  that  eludes,  love  never  found 
High  hopes  that  tempt,  or  goodness  still  pursued 
Have  their  own  Furies,  for  this  mortal  ground 
Breeds  serpents  from  the  blood  of  fortitude 
And  action  as  it  does  from  listless  fear. 
[166] 


THE  FURIES 

You  have  aspired  and  fallen,  curse  the  past 
Till  madness  come !     Be  quiet,  hide  or  sear 
The  memory  of  the  dream,  no  less  at  last 
The  Sisters  shall  arrive  !     How  do  they  come  ? 
Your  life  grows  round  a  moral  governance 
And  you  have  served  it.     You  are  stricken  dumb 
To  see  it  crumble  spite  of  vigilance. 
Now  when  you  cannot  think,  rebuild,  repair 
The  Sisters  come  and  wheel  your  cripple's  chair. 

Ill 

You  were  a  fennel  stalk  that  laughed  and  grew 
With  laughter  till  the  life  in  you  could  use 
The  cells  no  further,  then  the  cold  winds  blew, 
And  you  fell  whispering  of  the  April  dews. 
Grown  fair  or  foul  the  rhythmic  force  was  spent, 
The  summer  gone,  your  little  past  achieved, 
Repulsions  balanced,  though  you  might  lament 
So  much  neglected,  or  too  much  believed. 
You  were  a  dry  weed  when  a  Great  Hand  seized 
And  bore  you  as  a  carrier  of  fire. 
The  garden  you  had  grown  in  had  not  pleased ! 
Was  this,  perhaps,  the  end  of  your  desire  ? 
You  lit  a  heap  of  leaves  where  children  came, 
The  Furies  meditating  watched  the  flame ! 


APOLLO  AT  PHER.E 

Zeus  envied  ^Esculapius  that  he  healed 
The  sick  and  brought  the  dead  to  life,  and  fain 
Would  slay  him.     So  the  Cyclops  brought  Zeus  light 
ning 

With  which  Zeus  smote  the  healer.     Then  Apollo 
Destroyed  the  Cyclops,  grieving  for  his  son. 
And  Clotho  laughed  to  see  the  thread  of  fate 
Slip  by  Atropos,  woven  in  the  cloth 
Of  destiny.     For  had  she  cut  the  thread 
Shot  from  the  spindle,  then  a  little  trace 
Of  scarlet,  but  no  figures  of  despair 
Had  marked  the  storied  tapestry.     So  Apollo 
Was  doomed  for  punishment  to  tend  the  flocks 
Of  King  Admetus,  lord  of  Pherae.     Next 
Apollo  met  a  mortal  woman,  daughter 
Of  an  old  soldier,  servitor  of  the  gods 
And  rich  in  land. 

He,  sitting  on  a  rock 
That  overlooked  a  green  Thessalian  field 
Where  grazed  the  flocks,  clad  in  a  leopard's  skin, 
His  crook  beside  him,  dreamed  of  wide  Olympus : 
"This  hour  the  muses  dance,  the  Council  sits 
And  there  is  high  debate,  or  Hera  storms 

[168] 


APOLLO  AT  PHER^E 

For  Zeus'  absence ;  there  is  life,  and  I 

Unknown,  alone,  a  shepherd  by  this  field 

Of  pastoral  pathos  labor  all  the  day." 

And  then  a  step  disturbed  his  revery; 

And  looking  up  he  saw  a  slender  maid 

White  as  gardenias,  jonquil-haired,  with  eyes 

As  blue  as  Peneus  when  he  meets  the  sea. 

And  an  old  weakness  crept  upon  the  god. 

For  ever  in  his  soul  there  shone  the  face 

Of  woman,  like  the  face  of  Artemis, 

His  virgin  sister,  delicate  and  chaste ; 

And  to  overcome  such  whiteness  and  reserve 

Had  been  Apollo's  madness  from  his  birth. 

And  this  Chione,  daughter  of  the  soldier, 

Servitor  of  the  gods  and  rich  in  land 

At  once  became  his  passion.     So  he  rose 

And  to  Chione  spoke,  and  she,  to  him. 

And  then  anon  she  saw  the  unkept  curls 

Sun-bleached,    that   touched    his    shoulders,    then    his 

breast, 

Smooth  as  her  own,  and  then  his  arms,  his  hands 
His  shapely  knees,  his  firm  and  pointed  feet, 
And  her  eyes  closed  as  stars  beneath  the  dawn 
And  dawn  rose  in  her  cheeks.     And  the  god  knew 
Her  inmost  thought. 

So  all  that  day  they  played, 
Amid  the  wind-blown  light  of  Thessaly. 
[169] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

He  wove  her  traps  for  crickets  from  the  grass, 

And  from  the  willow  branches  made  her  flutes ; 

He  caught  her  butterflies,  and  sang  her  runes 

Of  living  things,  and  how  the  earth  and  sea 

From  Erebus  and  Love  sprang  into  being ; 

And  how  the  sun,  and  the  bright  pageant  of  the  stars 

Dance  joyously  to  music.     And  Chione 

Was  dumb  for  happiness ;   and  the  day  went  by. 

But  with  the  dusk  there  came  a  swooning  languor, 

All  was  forgotten  save  the  shepherd's  face 

Held  close  to  hers,  and  round  his  moving  curls 

The  circled  splendor  of  the  sickle  moon  — 

Nor  eyes,  nor  lips,  only  a  golden  blur. 

And  rousing  she  beheld  the  enshadowed  field 

Flockless  and  silent,  and  the  shepherd  gone. 

Then  through  the  night  Chione  weakly  walked 

And  found  at  last  her  home. 

The  light  of  day 

Brought  terror  to  Chione.     Then  she  sought 
And  found  Apollo  where  he  sat  before 
And  told  him  that  her  father,  the  old  soldier, 
Was  favored  of  Admetus,  and  would  bring 
The  royal  power  against  him,  if  he  failed 
The  troth  of  wedlock.     And  Apollo  mused 
Upon  his  exile  from  Olympus'  throne, 
And  Zeus'  wrath  against  him,  that  he  slew 
The  Cyclops,  and  upon  his  shepherd  state 


APOLLO  AT  PHER^E 

Tending  Admetus'  flocks,  and  how  unknown 
And  weak  he  stood  between  these  kingly  hands 
Of  Zeus  and  of  Admetus.     And  seeing  her  fair, 
More  fair  in  tears,  he  gave  her  his  consent. 

Next  day  Chione  brought  the  god  a  robe 
And  sandals  and  a  girdle.     Thus  arrayed 
Chione  took  him  to  her  father's  home 
The  ancient  soldier,  servitor  of  the  gods, 
And  rich  in  land,  and  spoke  of  him  as  Acteus 
A  merchant  from  the  city.     Then  the  father 
Gave  thanks  to  Zeus  and  at  the  family  board 
Apollo  supped,  as  one  who  would  become 
Chione's  husband.     So  it  came  to  pass. 
They  walked  together  in  the  bridal  train 
Behind  the  perfumed  torches. 

All  the  while 

Zeus  smiled  to  see  Apollo's  punishment. 
And  Hera,  who  with  woman's  subtlety, 
Knew  that  there  shone  within  Apollo's  soul 
A  face  like  to  the  face  of  Artemis, 
His  virgin  sister,  delicate  and  chaste, 
And  to  o'ercome  such  whiteness  and  reserve 
Had  been  Apollo's  madness  from  his  birth, 
Laughed  freely  with  the  muses  as  she  said : 
"Thus  is  the  masculine  spirit  ever  caught 
By  its  own  lure,  let  Zeus  himself  take  heed 
Lest  sometime  he  be  snared." 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

So  when  Olympus 

Grew  dull,  the  gods  for  fun  looked  o'er  the  ramparts 
And  spied  upon  Apollo  at  the  board 
With  all  Chione's  family ;   or  at  night 
Beside  Chione  and  the  little  faces 
Which  every  year  increased.     Or  on  Apollo 
About  his  bitter  task  of  shepherding 
To  win  the  bread  for  faded  Chione 
And  for  the  children. 

Thus  the  nine  years  passed. 
Then  Zeus,  avenged,  sent  all  the  muses  down 
To  bring  Apollo  back,  and  to  Olympus 
Humbled  and  sorrowful  he  came  again, 
With  wrinkles  and  a  touch  of  whitened  hair, 
And  a  lack-lustre  eye,  which  all  the  art 
Of  Aphrodite  after  many  days 
Could  scarce  remove. 

Then  Chione  told  her  father 
That  Acteus  was  not  a  merchant  from  the  city. 
"Too  late,"  she  said,  "I  found  he  had  deceived  me 
And  masked  his  shepherd  calling." 

To  which  her  father 
The  ancient  soldier,  servitor  of  the  gods 
And  rich  in  land :   "Yea,  daughter,  he  deceived  you. 
Now  he  has  run  away,  abandoned  you, 
May  the  gods  note  it  and  avenge  the  wrong." 

[172] 


STEAM  SHOVEL  CUT 

Steam  Shovel  Cut  lies  through  a  wood, 
And  the  trestle's  at  the  end. 
And  north  are  the  lonely  Fillmore  Hills, 
And  south  the  river's  bend. 

It's  Christmas  day  and  the  blue  on  the  hill 
Is  flapped  by  a  flying  crow. 
And  the  steel  of  the  railroad  track  is  cold, 
And  the  Cut  is  piled  with  snow. 

What  is  that  there  by  the  trestle's  end 
Where  the  Cut  slopes  down  to  the  slough  ? 
That's  Cora  Williams  lying  there 
In  her  cloak  of  faded  blue. 

Her  skirt  is  red  as  a  northern  spy, 
And  her  mittens  blackberry  black. 
And  under  her  cotton  underskirt 
There's  a  green  place  on  her  back. 

Her  little  gray  hat  is  over  her  brow, 
And  covers  a  purple  bruise. 
She  had  white  stockings  tor  her  feet 
And  the  holes  were  in  her  shoes. 

[173] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

Where  did  you  meet  Croak  Carless,  girl  ? 
And  where  did  you  start  to  booze  ? 
They  saw  you  once  at  Rigdon's  place, 
And  last  at  Sandy  Hughes'. 

On  the  night  that  Jesus  Christ  was  born 
You  were  drinking  gin  and  beer. 
They  saw  you  sitting  on  Carless'  knees 
As  the  midnight  hour  drew  near. 

They  saw  you  two  start  into  the  night, 
And  the  night  was  cold  and  black. 
And  then  they  found  you  there  by  the  bridge 
With  the  green  bruise  on  your  back. 

Down  through  the  dark  to  the  Shovel  Cut 
The  two  of  you  walked  and  sang. 
You  were  holding  hands  on  the  trestle  bridge 
When  the  bell  began  to  clang. 

'Twas  back  of  the  curve  that  the  head-light  shone 

So  what  was  the  use  of  eyes  ? 

The  mad  iron  thing  leaped  on  you  there 

As  you  ran  on  the  trestle  ties. 

It  rushed  on  you  like  a  furious  bull 
That  charges  a  scarlet  flag. 
The  engineer  looked  long  at  the  gauge 
As  the  fireman  scraped  the  slag. 

[174] 


STEAM  SHOVEL  CUT 

Croak  Carless  jumped  and  fell  on  a  stone 
And  the  world  to  him  was  a  blank. 
But  the  iron  thing  struck  at  your  back 
And  doubled  you  down  on  the  bank. 

Croak  Carless  woke  from  a  sleep  like  death 
And  found  you  covered  with  blood. 
He  slinks  to  the  river  to  wash  his  hands, 
He  runs  to  hide  in  the  wood. 

He  steals  through  thickets,  hides  in  a  barn, 
He  cowers  where  the  corn's  in  shock. 
But  the  posse  catches  Croak  by  noon, 
And  the  jailer  turns  the  lock. 

Croak  Carless'  wife  weeps  at  the  bars, 
Croak  weeps  in  a  grated  cell. 
They've  mortgaged  the  farm  for  a  lawyer's  fee 
To  save  Croak's  soul  from  hell. 

For  the  Coroner  has  a  bat-like  thing 
In  a  bottle  safe  in  his  room. 
It  looks  like  a  baby  devil  fish  — 
It's  Cora  Williams'  womb. 

A  woman's  womb  is  a  thing  of  doom 
And  winged  with  a  fan-like  mesh. 
And  who  was  the  father,  they're  asking  Croak, 
Of  this  bit  of  jelly  flesh  ? 
[I75l 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

And  the  doctors  took  an  oath  in  the  court 
That  a  sharp  club  did  the  deed. 
And  the  judge  was  a  foe  of  the  lawyer  man 
Croak  Carless  paid  to  plead. 

And  Croak  had  talked  too  much  in  jail, 
And  he  trembled  and  testified 
To  a  woeful  tangle  of  time  and  place, 
And  the  jury  thought  he  lied. 

Croak  Carless'  wife  sobbed  out  in  court 

As  they  twisted  him  out  and  in. 

For  they  made  him  swear  he  drank  with  the  girl, 

And  swear  to  his  carnal  sin. 

They  stood  him  up  on  the  gallow's  trap 
And  his  voice  was  clear  and  low : 
If  I  killed  Cora  Williams,  men, 
My  soul  to  hell  should  go. 

They  sprang  the  trap,  Croak  Carless  shot 
Like  a  wheat  bag  toward  the  floor. 
And  the  doctors  let  his  body  hang 
Till  his  old  heart  beat  no  more. 

They  let  him  alone  to  work  and  sweat 
For  a  wife's  and  children's  ease. 
But  they  hung  him  up  for  a  little  beer 
With  a  woman  on  his  knees. 


STEAM  SHOVEL  CUT 

And  he  might  have  died  in  bed  in  a  year, 
For  when  they  opened  him  up 
They  found  his  heart  was  a  played  out  pump, 
And  leaked  like  a  rusty  cup. 

And  a  man  can  live  as  the  church  decrees, 
Or  dance  in  the  way  of  vice, 
A  woman's  womb  is  a  thing  of  doom, 
And  life  is  the  current  price. 

Tis  a  vampire  bat,  or  the  leather  box 
From  which  you  rattle  the  dice. 
JTis  an  altar  of  doom,  is  a  woman's  womb, 
And  man  is  the  sacrifice. 


N  [177] 


THE  HOUSES 

You  wonder  why  I  bought  so  many  houses, 

Bought  and  repaired,  built  over  home  on  house. 

The  first  one  was  to  make  a  home  for  Mary, 

And  Frank  and  Bessie,  for  I  had  myself 

A  settled  home  when  I  was  boy  and  man, 

And  knew  the  feeling  of  respect,  content 

Which  comes  of  one  familiar  and  continued 

Habitation  for  a  boy  who's  growing. 

The  first  house,  then,  was  poor  enough,  God  knows ! 

A  place  that  smelt  in  all  the  rooms  of  breath 

A  sick  man  breathes  into  the  very  paper. 

The  rat  holes  in  the  base  boards  had  to  be 

Stopped  up  with  plaster,  all  the  floors  were  loose. 

Bricks  lay  awry  upon  the  chimney  tops. 

An  old  well  with  a  windlass  on  the  porch 

Made  one  remember  typhoid  all  the  time. 

Some  apple  trees  half-rotted,  covered  over 

With  water  sprouts  stood  in  a  yard  of  weeds. 

A  barn  was  at  the  yard's  end  out  of  shape 

From  leaning  at  an  angle.     All  in  all 

The  place  was  haunted,  but  it  was  the  best 

I  could  afford  just  then,  and  naturally 

She  hated  it  and  grumbled  all  the  time. 

[178] 


THE  HOUSES 

A  few  years  past,  it  seemed  scarce  two  or  three, 

And  all  the  children  married,  went  away. 

Just  then  I  grew  more  prosperous  and  built  over 

The  haunted  house,  and  built  a  handsome  barn, 

Cut  out  the  apple  trees,  destroyed  the  weeds, 

And  put  an  iron  fence  around  the  yard. 

Put  bathrooms,  running  water  in  the  house. 

She  jawed  at  me  for  doing  this,  and  asked 

Why  did  you  wait  until  the  children  left  ? 

Of  course  she  knew,  but  blamed  me  just  the  same. 

And  so  we  had  no  pleasure  with  this  house. 

She  wanted  larger  rooms,  and  trees  in  front, 

A  sunny  dining  room  —  there  was  that  porch 

On  which  ours  looked,  and  though  I  closed  the  well 

She  often  wondered  why  we  had  not  died 

Before  I  closed  it. 

And  about  this  time 

Our  banker  moved  away  and  left  his  house 
For  sale  at  public  auction.     I  went  down 
Alone,  not  telling  her,  to  look  at  it. 
Here  was  a  house  upon  a  stone  foundation 
Built  of  red  brick,  peaked  roof  of  slate,  three  stories, 
Brick  walks  about  the  yard  with  plots  of  flowers, 
A  barn  of  brick  —  it  was  the  very  place ! 
There  now  were  grandchildren ;   and  so  I  dreamed 
How  they  would  romp  about  this  lovely  yard, 
Or  play  on  rainy  days  in  that  wide  garret. 

[179] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

And  so  I  bid  and  got  the  house  at  auction. 

But  when  I  told  her  she  was  up  in  arms : 

The  house  would  hold  a  family  of  ten ! 

Besides  the  upper  rooms  were  far  too  small : 

What  is  a  dining  room,  or  huge  drawing  room 

If  you  step  out  of  bed  against  the  wall  ? 

Then  there's  that  gully  just  below  the  barn 

Breeding  malaria,  the  banker's  family 

Were  sick  year  in  and  out  —  that's  why  they  sold  it 

For  anything  at  public  sale.     O  fool ! 

Well,  Mary  came  that  summer  with  her  children, 

And  my  poor  dream  in  part  was  realized. 

But  Frank  and  Bessie  moved  to  California 

And  never  saw  the  happiness  I  planned 

For  them  and  for  their  children.     Mary's  husband 

Disliked  the  house  —  his  hatred  was  beginning. 

Next  summer  Mary  left  him  and  divorced  him, 

And  started  out  to  earn  her  children's  bread. 

She  didn't  come  again. 

And  so  it  was  true, 

We  didn't  need  so  large  a  house  —  we  sold  it 
And  bought  a  cottage  of  six  rooms ;   this  time 
She  joined  with  me  in  picking  out  the  house, 
But  that  was  nothing,  for  no  other  house 
Besides  this  one  was  up  for  sale  just  then. 
No  sooner  had  we  moved  than  she  was  full 
Of  wounded  memory  and  a  mad  regret: 
[180] 


THE  HOUSES 

She  saw  what  she  had  lost.     These  little  rooms ! 

This  front  fence  almost  jammed  against  the  door ! 

And  stoves  again  instead  of  radiators ! 

No  running  water,  only  an  old  pump 

Above  the  kitchen  sink  !     And  near  the  station  — 

The  bawling  bussmen  bothered  her  at  night ! 

The  midnight  train  woke  her  unfailingly. 

And  now  she  said  our  first  house  was  all  right 

With  this,  or  that  corrected.     We  had  blundered 

In  ever  selling  it  and  taking  on 

Such  luxury  in  the  brick  house.     It  had  spoiled 

Her  taste  for  living  in  a  house  like  this, 

With  just  a  little  yard,  that  hideous  fence, 

Which  one  could  touch  while  standing  in  the  door ! 

She  said  she  could  not  breathe  because  of  it, 

And  railed  against  her  fate  so  that  it  brought 

The  next  step  in  my  life  of  buying  houses.  .  .  . 

Dreams  entered  in  my  brain  of  fields  and  woods, 
A  little  lake  perhaps,  river  or  stream. 
There  was  a  fad  of  buying  farms  just  then. 
I  went  to  Michigan  on  other  business, 
And  there  I  saw  one,  bought  it  on  the  spot. 
You  see  I  had  the  passion  as  of  drink, 
And  knew  it  as  I  ventured  once  again. 
But  then  there  was  the  house  upon  the  bluff ! 
And  there  below  it  was  the  river !  there 
Beeches  and  oaks  down  to  the  river's  edge ! 
[181] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

A  great  white  house  all  new,  and  apple  trees, 

A  vineyard  and  a  field  of  eighty  acres. 

Here  will  I  sit,  I  said,  upon  my  bluff 

And  watch  the  river.     I  will  keep  a  man 

To  farm  the  place,  and  prune  the  vines  and  trees, 

This  is  the  place  at  last.     But  then  I  thought 

What  will  she  say  ?     She  wants  a  farm  I  know, 

But  will  this  suit  her  ?     So  I  sent  for  her. 

And  when  she  came  she  kissed  me,  she  was  glad, 

Commended  my  good  judgment,  loved  the  house, 

Went  through  the  barn  in  rapture,  stood  beneath 

The  windmill,  which  was  near,  to  watch  it  pump. 

Strolled  down  the  wooded  bluff,  threw  pebbles  in 

The  river  where  the  swallows  dipped  and  flew, 

And  gathered  daisies  by  the  river's  shore. 

I  sat  down  in  the  grass  flushed  through  with  joy, 

Like  one  who  finds  his  haven,  who  has  solved 

Laborious  troubles,  thinking  of  the  rest 

I  should  take  here  —  a  man  to  run  the  place, 

And  months  of  summer  recreation  here ! 

I  told  her  what  my  plan  was. 

No,  she  said, 

To  own  a  farm  is  business.     You  should  know 
By  this  time  that  you  have  no  head  for  business. 
I  think  you've  shown  some  wisdom  in  this  farm, 
Or  better  you've  had  luck  in  buying  it. 
Your  other  ventures  buying  houses  were 
[182! 


THE  HOUSES 

Enough  to  make  you  have  distrust  of  self. 

Now  that  you've  bought  the  farm  to  make  it  pay 

Is  what  we  have  in  hand,  and  you  must  work. 

We'll  keep  a  man,  but  he  cannot  do  all 

There  is  to  do  here,  I  will  work  and  you 

Must  work  as  well,  the  farm  must  pay,  you  know. 

I  want  the  man  to  live  with  us  in  the  house 

So  I  can  watch  him,  rout  him  out  to  work 

At  sun-up  and  keep  watch  upon  his  time. 

We'll  keep  two  rooms  for  our  use.     For  the  man 
Must  have  a  family,  these  single  fellows 
Are  off  too  much  at  night  and  think  too  much 
In  working  hours  of  what  they'll  do  at  night. 

Perhaps  I  am  a  weakling  with  my  dream 

Of  buying  houses,  for  I  dream  of  joys 

And  build  my  palaces,  invite  my  joys 

To  enter  and  be  glad.     They  never  come ! 

She  took  the  farm  and  ran  it.     It  was  business, 

But  business  in  disorder  with  a  loss 

For  seed  which  did  not  sprout,  and  stock  that  died, 

And  glutted  markets  when  the  fruit  was  good. 

I  worked  awhile,  I  fished  once  in  the  river, 

I  sat  a  few  times  on  my  wooded  bluff  — 

And  then  I  fled  and  left  her  to  the  farm 

To  rule  a  single  farmer  who  cut  weeds, 

Abandoned  weeds  for  plowing,  left  the  plow 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

To  make  a  flower  bed,  following  her  whims 
Obedient,  indifferent  to  results.  .  .  . 

If  you  destroy  a  bird's  nest  that's  the  end. 

The  nesting  birds  return  to  find  the  branch 

Where  they  had  builded  with  such  patient  care, 

All  naked  of  their  work.     They  look  and  fly 

And  think  of  what  ?     But  build  no  more  that  year. 

But  if  you  take  a  twig  and  scratch  the  grains 

About  the  ant  hill,  overturn  their  work, 

Stop  up  the  door,  the  little  folk  begin 

To  build  again,  clear  out  the  ruined  hall  — 

They  cannot  be  discouraged  like  the  birds. 

I  think  I  am  an  ant  —  for  even  yet 

I'm  looking  for  a  house,  or  better  a  home. 

There   is    that   house   walled    in   with   earth  —  that's 

sure  — 

But  if  there  is  no  house  to  fill  my  joy 
Why  have  I  looked  for  houses  all  my  life  ? 


THE  CHURCH  AND  THE  HOTEL 

Over  the  dead  lake 
And  in  a  dusty  sky 
The  full  moon  is  speared  by  the  spire  of  the  Baptist 

church ; 

Or  now  it  hangs  over  the  Groveland  Hotel : 
I  do  not  know  whether  it  is  over  the  spire 
Or  over  the  hotel. 

In  a  dusty  sky  the  moon 

Is  the  bottom  of  a  copper  kettle 

Which  cannot  be  scoured  into  brightness. 

The  sky  is  a  faded  mosquito  net 

Over  a  brass  cylinder  cap 

Dulled  with  verdigris. 

Some  years  ago, 
Not  many  years  ago, 
The  Rev.  Albert  McDugall,  D.D. 
At  the  pulpit  under  this  spire 
With  habitual  regularity 
Used  to  say : 
Let  us  pray. 

And  the  Rev.  Albert  McDugall,  D.D. 
[185] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

With  habitual  regularity 

Used  to  preach 

On  the  wages  of  sin. 

And  on  Sunday  evenings 

As  he  was  saying  let  us  pray, 

Ed  Breen  in  Henry  Hughes'  buffet, 

There  in  the  Groveland  Hotel 

Sitting  with  cronies  at  a  table  would  say : 

"Another  round,  Henry, 

Bourbon  for  me." 

And  at  7  :  30, 

At  the  very  moment 

When  the  Rev.  Albert  McDugall,  D.D. 

Was  saying  let  us  pray, 

Ed  Breen  would  be  beginning  the  night, 

And  would  be  saying  to  Henry  Hughes : 

"Another  round,  Henry, 

Bourbon  for  me." 

You,  Rev.  Albert  McDugall,  D.D. 

Lived  to  a  ripe  age. 

You  lived  to  marry  a  second  wife. 

And  you,  Ed  Breen,  died  in  the  thirties. 

But  whether  it  be  better  to  have  ptomaine  poisoning 

From  eating  cold  chicken, 

Or  to  drug  yourself  to  death  with  bourbon 

I  will  ask  the  moon. 

[186] 


THE  CHURCH  AND  THE  HOTEL 

For  there  is  the  moon 

Like  a  German  silver  watch 

Under  a  grimy  show  case. 

I  think  it  hangs  as  much  over  the  hotel 

As  over  the  church. 


187] 


SUSIE 

Where  did  you  go,  pale  Susie,  after  the  day 
You  left  the  service  of  the  boarding  house  ? 
The  night  before  we  made  carouse 
And  danced  the  time  away. 

We  boys  were  in  the  kitchen  and  were  drinking 
Small  beer  —  you  slapped  the  hands  of  us 
Who  stroked  your  arms  half  amorous  — 
Where  did  you  go,  I'm  thinking  ? 

Medical  students  up  at  Hahnemann 
Hunt  women  on  a  Saturday  night. 
And  sing,  tell  tales,  and  verse  recite, 
And  rush  the  forbidden  can. 

The  paltry  mistress  made  you  pay  for  all 
The  fault  of  us,  and  packed  you  out  of  doors 
When  you  had  scrubbed  the  floors, 
And  swept  the  entrance  hall. 

I  watched  you  in  your  faded  cloak  and  hat 
With  canvas  bag  walk  towards  the  Grove. 
Then  something  in  my  fancy  hove, 
Laughing  I  caught  you  at 
[188] 


SUSIE 

The  doorway  of  the  hotel  on  the  street 

Where  I  had  tracked  you  round  from  thirty-first. 
You  laughed  and  cried  and  called  me  worst 
Of  devils  on  two  feet. 

There  I  had  followed  you  and  seized  you  when 
You  did  not  care  what  happened,  so 
You  fell  into  my  hands,  you  know  — 
'Tis  twenty  years  since  then. 

I  never  saw  you  after  that,  nor  heard 
In  all  this  city  aught  of  you. 
You  vanished  like  a  blot  of  dew, 
Or  ashen  hued  seed  bird. 

I  wonder  if  you  wed  a  red  bull-throat 
Who  ran  a  rivet  hammer,  drove  a  truck, 
Bore  many  children  or  worse  luck 
Went  where  the  drift  weeds  float.  .  .  . 


HAVING  HIS  WAY 

We  parted  at  the  Union  Station, 

Tom  Hall  and  I, 

Two  boys  in  the  early  twenties 

Fresh  from  the  quiet  of  fields, 

And  the  sleepy  silence  of  village  life. 

And  we  stepped  into  Adams  Street, 

Noisy  from  trucks  and  rattling  cars, 

And  babbling  multitudes. 

He  with  his  great  invention, 

And  I  with  my  translation  of  Homer, 

And  the  books  of  Rousseau  and  Marx. 

And  he  went  his  way 

To  sell  his  great  invention. 

And  I  in  the  village  glory 

Of  clothes  ill-fitting,  timid,  sensitive 

And  proud,  a  little  learned,  so  zealous 

For  the  weal  of  the  world 

Came  to  your  chateau  palace  near  the  Drive, 

To  you  my  friend,  my  queenly  cousin, 

For  a  little  visit  before  I  entered 

Upon  the  city's  life. 

[190] 


HAVING  HIS  WAY 

You  looked  me  over  with  calm  Egyptian  eyes, 

And  put  me  at  ease  with  your  lovely  smile. 

And  there  was  about  you  the  calm  of  desert  air  in 

Nevada 

That  made  me  forget  myself. 
Yet  you  began  to  guide  me  with  subtlest  words, 
And  to  mould  me  with  delicate  hands, 
As  one  might  smooth  a  rumpled  collar, 
Or  fasten  a  loosened  scarf, 
Or  lift  to  place  a  strand  of  hair 
Of  one  beloved  who  thrills  to  the  touch. 
Even  with  closed  eyes  you  saw  everything 
Of  harmony,  or  form,  or  hue. 
There  were  silver  strings  in  your  little  ears 
Which  caught  the  tone  pictures  of  sounds, 
And  the  intonations  and  sonorities  of  voices ; 
Which  trembled  to  the  barbarities  of  unmelodic  words. 
And  there  as  you  saw  and  heard  me, 
(I  knew  it  at  once,) 

You  took  me  for  your  piece  of  bronze  in  the  rough 
To  be  made  under  your  hands 
Your  triumph,  your  work,  your  creation 
In  the  world  where  you  ruled  as  queen. 
You  would  see  me  as  finished  art 
Move  before  admiring  eyes 
Where  music  is  and  richness, 
And  where  poverty  and  struggle 
And  sacrifice  and  failure  are  forgotten. 

[191] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

That  was  the  cousin  you  meant  me  to  be. 

And  in  a  few  nights 

There  was  an  evening  dress  and  fine  linen 

And  an  opera  hat  and  cloak 

Laid  out  for  me  in  my  snow  white  room, 

And  a  valet  came  to  help  me. 

For  we  were  to  see  Carmen  together  — 

You  and  I  in  a  box. 

You  the  queen, 

And  I  a  genius  from  the  country 

Of  whom  the  word  had  gone  the  rounds : 

A  translator  of  Homer, 

And  a  dreamer  of  revolutions, 

Her  cousin,  you  know ! 

I  was  pale  from  fear  and  pride 

As  I  entered  the  box  with  you. 

I  felt  I  was  wronging  my  dreams 

And  apostatizing  all  I  had  dreamed 

To  be  in  this  box  with  you. 

And  a  sullen  hatred  of  everything : 

The  mass  of  color,  the  faint  perfumes, 

The  lights,  the  jewels,  the  dazzling  breasts 

Of  the  queens  in  the  boxes  angered  me. 

And  everyone  was  smiling,  and  everyone  was  leveling 

Opera  glasses,  sometimes  at  me, 

A  translator  of  Homer 

And  a  dreamer  of  socialism. 


HAVING  HIS  WAY 

And  there  like  a  fool  I  sat  and  thought 
Of  the  cold  without  and  the  beggar  man 
Who  stood  at  your  carriage  as  we  alighted. 

And  when  the  music  arose  at  last 

A  sort  of  madness  whirled  in  my  brain. 

For  what  was  this  Carmen  thing 

But  subtle  wickedness  and  cruel  lust 

And  hardest  heathenism, 

And  delight  that  seeks  its  own, 

In  a  setting  of  bloody  voluptuousness, 

Fiendish  caprice  and  faithlessness, 

In  music  through  which  a  pagan  soul 

Had  sensed  and  voiced  it  all  ? 

Till  at  least  (I  almost  shrieked  at  this) 

Don  Jose  in  his  amorous  madness 

Plunged  a  knife  in  the  back  of  the  whore  he  loved 

To  the  growl  of  horns  and  moan  of  viols.  .  .  . 

And  you  sat  through  it  all 
Like  a  firefly  on  a  vine  leaf 
Suspiring  in  all  your  body, 
And  gazing  with  calm  Egyptian  eyes, 
Or  turning  to  me  as  if  you  would  know 
If  the  poison  was  in  my  blood.  .  .  . 
But  I  was  immune  : 
Democracy  seemed  too  glorious, 
And  the  cause  of  the  poor  too  just, 
o  [  193  ] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

And  fair  sweet  love  of  men  and  women 

So  worth  the  cost  to  gain  and  keep, 

And  honest  bread  too  sweet  — 

I  was  immune.  .  .  . 

And  I  scarcely  saw  the  fair  slim  girl 

To  whom  you  introduced  me. 

And  I  scarcely  heard  what  you  said  in  the  carnage 

About  her  countless  riches. 

And  I  scarcely  heard  your  words  of  praise 

That  I  looked  like  a  prince, 

And  that  you  meant  to  help  me, 

And  do  by  me  what  your  husband  would  do 

If  he  were  living, 

And  lift  me  along  to  a  place  in  life 

Where  power  and  riches  are, 

And  beauty  is  and  music, 

And  where  struggle  and  sacrifice  are  forgotten. 

And  when  I  did  not  answer  you  thought 
I  sat  abashed  by  your  side. 
Instead  in  my  mind  were  running 
The  notes  to  Queen  Mab, 
And  bits  of  Greek. 
I  did  this  to  stifle  my  wrath, 
And  to  forget  the  cage  you  were  luring  me  into, 
And  the  poison  you  were  offering  me, 
And  the  cause  of  Truth ! 
And  hiding  my  wrath  in  a  day  or  two 
[194] 


HAVING  HIS  WAY 

I  left  you  saying  I  would  return, 
But  I  never  returned. 

Instead  I  went  where  the  youths  were  thinking, 

Painting  and  writing, 

And  talking  of  the  revolution, 

And  the  glorious  day  to  come. 

And  I  was  happy  even  though 

They  sent  my  great  translation  back 

As  poor  and  amateurish. 

For  the  years  of  youth  were  long  ahead 

There  was  time  to  try  again.  .  .  . 

Then  Margaret's  stepmother 

Drove  her  from  home,  and  she  came  to  the  city 

Crying  in  her  loneliness  and  destitution, 

Suffering  from  her  lame  hip. 

And  even  these  were  happy  days, 

For  I  loved  her  for  her  sorrows, 

I  loved  her  for  her  lameness. 

It  was  all  transfigured  through  my  love 

For  democracy  and  sacrifice, 

And  the  sweetness  of  honest  bread. 

And  it  was  like  taking  the  sacrament,  our  marriage. 

And  there  in  our  little  flat  far  out 

On  Robey  Street  I  toiled  at  writing 

While  she  went  about  so  lame, 

Trying  to  keep  the  house  for  me, 

[1951 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

And  to  clear  away  the  disorders 
Which  piled  about  her  constantly 
And  were  never  cleared  away.  .  .  . 

And  is  it  not  strange  that  to-day, 

After  the  lapse  of  ten  years 

These  two  things  happen  within  an  hour  ? 

Your  letter  from  Rome  arrived  - 

For  though  I  scorned  your  life  and  love, 

And  went  my  way, 

You  write  me  still  it  seems, 

Not  to  wound  my  fallen  state, 

Nor  to  show  me  what  my  life  had  been 

If  I  had  heeded  you. 

But  just  in  the  continuous  sunshine 

Of  noble  friendship  to  show  me 

I  am  sometimes  in  your  thought. 

And  scarcely  had  your  letter  come 

When  Tom  Hall  crept  up  the  creaking  stairs 

Dragging  his  feet  with  the  help  of  a  cane  — 

He  is  rich  and  came  to  help  me. 

And  Tom  Hall  had  his  way  as  well : 

He  hated  marriage  and  went  the  rounds, 

Wherever  a  pretty  face  allured. 

And  now  he  is  sick  and  dragging  his  feet. 

And  here  am  I  at  a  writing  desk : 

I'm  cap  and  bells  for  the  Daily  Globe 

And  my  grind  is  a  column  a  day. 


HAVING  HIS  WAY 

You  see  it  comes  to  this,  dear  queen : 

Can  a  man  or  woman  alive  escape 

The  granite's  edges  or  ditch's  mire, 

The  thorny  thickets  or  marsh's  gas, 

Or  the  traps  one  thinks  would  never  be  set 

Except  for  the  fox  or  wolf  ?  .  .  . 

And  here  is  Margaret  down  with  a  cough 

Never  to  rise  from  her  bed  again. 

And  I  sit  by  at  my  task  of  jokes, 

And  I  stop  to  read  your  letter  again, 

And  wonder  why  life  has  never  caught  you, 

And  why  you  are  laughing  there  in  Rome 

Where  you  dine  with  happy  friends ; 

Or  tramp  the  thickets  around  the  ruins 

Of  the  Baths  of  Caracalla  - 

I  see  the  platforms  and  dizzy  arches 

Under  a  sky  of  Italy. 

It's  cloudy  here  and  the  elevated 

Rattles  and  roars  beneath  my  window. 

You're  picking  flowers  while  it's  winter  here. 

I  read  these  things  in  your  letter  and  wonder 

Is  the  asp  at  your  breast  in  spite  of  laughter  ? 

Or  when  is  the  asp  to  sting  you  ? 


[1971 


THE  ASP 

As  the  train  rushed  on 

The  days  of  our  youth  swept  through  me, 

As  if  they  were  brought  to  life  by  a  sort  of  friction. 

I  thought  of  how  madly  you  laughed 

When  we  played  at  blindman's  buff  with  the  Miller 

girls  ; 

And  of  the  May  baskets  we  made  together, 
And  hung  as  we  rang  the  bell  and  ran. 
And  of  our  games  in  the  first  spring  days 
When  we  stole  from  house  to  house. 
And  the  children  were  shouting 
And  the  April  moon  was  new. 
And  the  smell  of  burning  leaves 
And  the  first  tulips  filled  us  with  such  ecstasy. 
We  laughed,  we  shouted,  we  leaped  for  joy. 
We  ran  like  mad  through  the  rooms, 
And  we  went  to  bed  at  last 
Laughing  and  gasping, 
And   lay   looking   at   the   moon   through   the   leafless 

boughs, 

And  fell  to  sleep  with  joyous  hearts, 
Thinking  of  to-morrow, 
And  the  days  and  days  to  come  for  play, 
And  the  summer  to  come, 

[198] 


THE  ASP 

And  all  the  mad  raptures  of  school  at  an  end, 

And  no  death,  and  no  end 

Of  the  love  of  father  and  mother, 

And  the  home  we  loved. 

And  here  it  was  spring  again  — 
But  such  a  spring ! 
At  the  end  of  such  years  and  years 
And  births  and  births  and  spheres  and  spheres  of  life, 
Each  like  a  life  or  a  world  of  its  own 
With  its  friends,  its  own  completeness,  its  rounded  end. 
And  back  of  them  all 
Our  old  home  forgotten, 
Our  father  and  mother  gone, 
And  back  of  this  spring  that  ended  world  of  ours 
Wherein  we  parted 
Grown  misty  too ! 
And  as  the  train  rushed  on 
And  the  hour  of  meeting  you  neared 
I  was  thrilled  with  gladness,  thrilled  with  fear. 
And  now  the  station  was  Herkimer, 
And  now  it  was  Amsterdam, 
And  now  it  was  Albany, 
And  then  Poughkeepsie  on  the  Hudson. 
And  I  looked  from  the  car  to  the  passing  scene, 
And  back  to  the  car  again. 
Or  I  turned  in  my  seat 
Or  took  up  my  book  and  laid  it  down, 

[  199] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

Or  fastened  my  bag  for  the  hundredth  time, 

Or  straightened  my  cloak  on  the  seat, 

And  waited  and  waited. 

For  I  had  a  story  to  tell  you 

That  I  could  not  wait  to  tell. 

I  was  traveling  a  thousand  miles  to  tell  you, 

And  to  get  your  advice,  to  have  your  solace, 

To  look  in  your  eyes  again, 

And  to  feel  in  spite  of  springs  that  were  gone, 

And  our  old  home,  and  father  and  mother  gone 

There  was  an  arm  in  the  world  for  me  to  lean  on. 

And  the  train  rushed  on 
Bringing  me  nearer  to  you. 
And  the  tears  welled  up  to  my  eyes 
As  I  wondered  why  life  had  mangled  me  so : 
Why  the  man  I  loved  at  first  and  hated  afterward 
Had  died  that  tragic  death, 
Leaving  me  with  memories  of  that  love, 
And  such  agony  for  that  hate. 
And  why  as  a  sort  of  Empress  Eugenia 
The  world  turned  on  me  when  I  fell, 
And  the  little  power  I  had  departed. 
And  why  in  spite  of  my  aspiration 
I  had  run  into  such  disgust, 
Such  overthrow  of  my  work, 
Such  undoing  of  myself, 
Such  spiritual  wreck  and  shame ! 
[200] 


THE  ASP 

And  to  think  of  what  had  done  it : 

My  search  for  love,  my  struggle  for  excellence  — 

These  things  alone ! 

I  had  married  this  second  man  for  love, 

And  because  I  believed  in  him 

As  a  man  of  power,  a  man  of  thought, 

A  man  who  loved  me. 

And  hoping  through  him  to  retrieve  my  life 

From  the  smut  of  the  man  I  married  first. 

But  I  found  my  very  soul  deceived  : 

He  was  just  a  violent  visionary, 

A  frothing  fool, 

A  spendthrift,  coward,  hedonist. 

And  there  I  was  tied  to  him. 

And  carrying  his  child  while  finding  him  out. 

So  I  used  to  stand  with  my  face  to  the  wall 

And  choke  my  mouth  with  a  handkerchief 

To  keep  from  crying  out. 

For  I  knew  if  a  whimper  passed  my  lips 

I  should  fall  and  roll  on  the  floor  with  madness, 

And  beat  my  head  on  the  floor. 

So  when  the  train  rolled  into  the  station 
A  sickness,  a  weakness  came  over  me. 
I  had  spent  myself  in  expectation. 
And  now  that  I  was  about  to  see  you, 
The  thought  of  the  vainness  of  seeing  you, 
And  the  thought  that  you  could  not  help  me, 
[aoil 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

Though  I  had  traveled  these  thousand  miles, 

Made  me  wish  to  fly,  to  hide. 

So  I  stepped  from  the  train  in  a  kind  of  daze, 

And  scarcely  felt  your  kiss. 

It  seemed  relaxed,  so  faint. 

And  your  voice  was  weak. 

And  your  eyes  were  dim  and  dry. 

And  there  in  the  cab  as  we  drove  to  the  Park 

I  was  still  in  a  daze 

Talking  of  May  baskets 

And  blindman's  buff, 

And  laughing,  for  one  always  laughs 

When  the  moment  is  worst. 

And  so  it  was  I  did  not  really  see  you. 

But  when  we  began  to  walk 

Things  about  you  began  to  limn  themselves : 

Your  shoulders  seemed  a  little  bent. 

There  were  streaks  of  snow  on  your  temples. 

And  you  were  quiet  with  the  terrible  quietness 

Of  understanding  of  life. 

And  the  old  wit  I  knew, 

And  the  glad  defiance  of  fate, 

And  the  light  in  your  eyes, 

And  the  musical  laugh 

All  were  gone. 

Perhaps  the  daily  grind  of  Cap  and  Bells 

Had  sapped  you,  dear. 

[202] 


THE  ASP 

But  when  I  looked  at  your  hand  on  your  cane 

And  saw  how  white  and  slim  it  was, 

And  how  it  trembled,  I  knew 

You  were  not  the  giant  man  of  old, 

Though  you  said  you  were  gaining  strength  again, 

And  I  could  lean  on  your  arm. 

Well,  then  I  told  you  all : 

How  my  search  for  love  had  fooled  me  again ; 

And  how  this  beast  had  wronged  and  robbed  me ; 

And  how  he  stood  in  his  paranoiac  rages, 

And  compared  himself  to  Christ. 

But  when  I  began  to  speak  of  the  child, 

What  a  darling  girl  she  was, 

You  sank  in  a  seat  and  said  :   "No  more  — 

I  didn't  think  I  was  weak  as  this  — 

You  mustn't  tell  me  another  thing, 

Not  now,  not  just  now." 

Then  I  saw,  what  Time  had  done, 

And  I  saw  that  you  could  not  help  me. 

And  the  next  day  and  the  next  day, 

When  I  did  not  see  you, 

And  weeks  passed  by  and  I  scarcely  saw  you, 

And  I  scarcely  saw  you  again, 

Though  I  had  come  a  thousand  miles 

To  lean  on  your  arm, 

It  grew  in  my  mind  that  you  despised  me, 

Or  that  you  were  indifferent  to  my  lot, 

[203] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

Or  at  least  that  I  was  a  wounded  thing 

You  could  not  bear  to  see. 

Till  at  last,  though  I  knew 

That  my  way  was  clear  :   there  was  nothing  to  do 

But  to  fly  with  my  child, 

And  leave  him  forever, 

And  endure  great  loneliness  forever,  if  need  be, 

And  whatever  shame  there  was, 

For  the  sake  of  my  soul's  honor, 

Which  only  myself  could  save, 

And  you  could  save  not  at  all. 

Though  I  knew,  I  say,  that  my  way  was  clear, 

And  I  needed  your  help  not  at  all, 

Still  in  a  kind  of  madness 

I  began  to  reproach  you  for  not  helping  me, 

And  for  abandoning  me  to  my  fate. 

As  a  sick  child  will  cry  and  blame  its  mother 

When  it  is  not  healed  at  once. 

And  that  was  the  mood  he  found  me  in 

When  he  came  with  a  smile  and  honey  words. 

Well,  I  fell  in  his  arms,  and  here  I  am 

Plunged  up  to  the  mouth  in  spiritual  muck, 

And  what  life  is  left  for  me  now  ? 

How  can  I  go  on  with  life  ? 

For  he  hates  me  now  as  a  humbled  thing, 

He  has  broken  my  pride  and  he  hates  me  now. 

And  he  roars  and  curses  about  the  house, 

[204] 


THE  ASP 

And  yells  at  our  little  girl  when  she  cries, 

And  stands  with  his  hands  outstretched  and  says 

That  his  fate  is  worse  than  Christ's. 

And  I  tremble  and  rustle  around  like  a  fallen  leaf, 

And  neither  laugh  nor  cry  nor  return  him  a  word. 

For  you  know  there's  a  spring, 

And  you  know  there's  a  fire, 

To  burn  dead  leaves. 

And  after  the  ashes 

There's  a  spirit  given  a  chance ! 


[205] 


THE   FAMILY 

We  were  three  larks  in  the  same  nest. 
All  spring  the  wind  blew  from  the  west. 
We  chirped  beneath  the  enshadowing  wheat, 
It  grew  to  green,  it  grew  to  gold. 
Our  mother's  voice  was  piercing  sweet 
To  see  how  strong  we  were  and  bold  — 
How  palpitant  of  wing. 

We  knew  our  father  not,  alas  ! 
A  hunter  slew  him  while  the  grass 
Was  fresh  beneath  the  April  rain. 
And  ere  I  had  the  strength  to  fly 
Our  brother  sang  a  farewell  strain 
And  soared  into  the  empty  sky. 
And  then  our  sister  knew  the  fear 
And  hunger  of  a  serpent's  eye. 
And  our  sweet  mother,  lone  and  drear, 
Fled  far  afield  and  left  me  here 
To  nurse  my  heart  and  sing. 


206 


THE  SUBWAY 

There  was  the  white  face  of  Fear, 

And  the  solemn  face  of  Duty, 

And  the  face  of  self  looking  in  the  mirror. 

But  there  were  voices  calling  from  vernal  hilltops, 

And  silver  spirits  by  moonlit  gardens  calling, 

And  voices  of  no  sound  from  far  horizons  calling, 

But  even  if  there  be  penitence  for  living 

And  thought  and  tears  for  the  past 

And  even  shame  and  even  hunger ; 

And  if  there  be  nothing  gained  at  the  last  in  living, 

And  much  to  pay  for  the  madness  of  briefest  bliss ; 

And  if  there  be  nothing  in  life,  and  life  be  nothing 

So  that  to  nail  one's  self  to  the  cross  is  nothing  lost 

Is  Death  not  even  less  ? 

These  were  the  voices  whereto  we  tore  our  flower 
Petal  by  petal  apart  and  scattered  it, 
And  paused  and  paltered. 

But  lest  the  whispers  grow  louder, 
And  the  eyebrows  arch  to  a  fiercer  scorn, 
You  fled  away  to  France  and  left  me 
With  only  a  poor  half  uttered  farewell, 

[207] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

A  scrawl  put  off  to  the  last,  then  written 
As  with  shut  eyes,  swift  nervous  hands : 
As  one  might  wait  for  the  heroic  thought 
To  take  his  poison  —  wait  in  vain,  and  then 
Cowardly  gulp  it  down  and  reel  to  death. 
I  could  not  hate  you  for  the  pain  of  hate, 
And  could  not  love  you  who  had  hid  yourself, 
Belied  yourself  behind  this  scrawl. 
I  could  only  sit  half-numb, 
And  drift  in  thought. 

And  afterwards  it  wasn't  so  much  to  be  alone, 

Nor  to  dream  of  the  days  that  were  done, 

Save  as  it  deepened  the  surge  in  my  heart, 

Or  strengthened  the  ebb  of  my  soul  for  thought 

Of  your  soul  drawn  away  from  me, 

So  needlessly  drawn  it  seemed. 

And  it's  the  music  that  deepens  and  changes,  — 

For  as  your  soul  adds  strings  to  its  strings 

There  are  fingers  to  play  —  it  almost  seems 

There  are  fingers  about  us  that  watch  and  wait 

For  a  soul  that's  adding  strings  to  its  harp 

To  play  them  when  they're  strung. 

And  so  it's  the  music  that  deepens  and  changes 

That  kills  you  at  last  I  think. 

Well,  I  had  a  dream  one  night 
That  a  dead  man  well  could  dream : 
[208! 


THE  SUBWAY 

They  had  buried  me  in  Rosehill. 

And  after  twenty  years  from  France  they  brought  you 

And  put  you  just  across  the  walk  from  me 

Where  we  slept  while  the  crowding  city  grew 

To  a  vast  six  millions,  and  they  were  building 

A  subway  to  Lake  Forest. 

And  we  were  forgotten  of  everyone, 

And  almost  our  family  names  were  lost. 

And  our  love  you  fled  from  all  forgotten, 

And  everything  we  said,  or  thought,  or  felt  forgotten 

With  the  whispers  of  boys  and  girls 

In  a  temple's  shadow  in  Babylon. 

Well,  to  pursue,  it's  a  day  in  March 
When  the  colors  are  brilliantly  white  and  blue ; 
And  it's  cold  except  for  Poles  and  Italians 
Who  dig  with  spades  and  cut  with  picks. 
And  some  of  these  fellows  are  digging  us  up, 
We  lie  in  the  way  of  the  subway,  you  know. 
And  they  dump  our  bones  in  a  careless  heap, 
The  ribs  of  me  by  the  ribs  of  you, 
My  skull  lies  ignorant  by  your  skull. 
And  behold  our  poor  arms  are  entwined. 
For  death  you  know  is  a  mocker  of  Life. 
And  there  we  lie  like  stocks  and  stones, 
And  where  is  our  love  and  where  is  your  fear  ? 
And  a  young  Pole  pushes  our  bones  together 
With  a  lusty  shove  of  his  heavy  shoe, 
p  [  209  ] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

And  he  says  to  another :  "You  saw  that  girl 
I  was  dancing  with  last  night  ? 
Well,  I  don't  think  I'm  the  only  one. 
And  besides  she  bothers  me  most  to  death. 
And  as  soon  as  this  subway  job  is  over, 
Which  will  be  in  a  year,  or  year  and  a  half, 
I'm  going  to  beat  it  back  to  Poland/' 
Then  the  other  beginning  to  shovel  muttered 

-1976." 


2IO 


THE  RADICAL'S  MESSAGE 

To  the  archangels  and  the  fiery  seed 
Of  mad  Prometheus,  fighting  gods  for  men, 
And  heaven  for  earth,  this  greeting : 
I  led  you  once,  I  taught  you,  am  the  sire 
Of  hosts  of  you,  but  fellow  to  you  all. 
And  when  I  fell,  was  chained  upon  this  bed 
By  adamantine  sickness,  then  I  lay 
And  had  you  in  my  thought  hour  after  hour, 
Day  after  day,  and  saw  you  in  dreams  by  night 
Still  fighting,  bleeding,  caring  for  the  fallen, 
Or  objurgating  heaven  for  the  curse 
It  sheds  on  men,  or  arming  for  the  fray 
With  steel  of  resisting  thought ;   and  so  the  sense 
Of  my  responsibility  has  weighed 
Upon  me  as  my  night  has  deftly  dawned 
To  something  clearer  than  the  soul  you  knew, 
Who  led  you  once,  with  breath  of  iron  horns, 
Called  to  you  :   Charge !  there  is  the  trench  of  greed  ! 
Avenge  the  poor  !  bring  justice  !  purge  the  state 
Of  fraud !     And  so  I  lay  and  thought  of  you 
Still  guarding  the  old  lines,  fighting  the  old  fights, 
While  I  was  changed,  was  not  your  leader  now, 
Cared  no  more  for  your  battles,  save  as  strife 
[211] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

That  leads  up  higher,  for  upon  my  wall 
I  woke  to  see  these  words  :   He  only  wins 
His  freedom  and  existence  who  each  day 
Conquers  them  newly.     How  can  I  tell  you 
What  has  come  over  me  ? 

You  walk  through  galleries, 
Devour  the  pictures  in  the  different  rooms, 
Then  gaze  about  you  where  you  stand  at  last 
Amid  supernal  canvases  of  light. 
Try  to  recall  the  pictures  you  have  studied, 
What  you  have  seen  has  helped  you  to  perceive 
The  final  beauties,  but  is  blurred  in  mind, 
It  has  been  lived,  has  lost  its  vital  power, 
Is  not  the  sovereign  moment. 

Climb  a  mountain 

The  whole  day  through,  and  at  the  time  of  stars 
Stand  on  a  peak  and  search  infinity ! 
You  have  forgot  the  valleys,  save  perhaps 
The  torment  of  the  flies  of  which  you're  freed 
In  these  cool  heights. 

So  age  cannot  recall 
The  thrill  and  intimate  complexities 
That  made  the  thought  of  youth.     A  sickness  comes  : 
One  has  been  metamorphosed,  cannot  live 
The  old  emotions,  habits,  old  delights. 

[212] 


THE  RADICAL'S   MESSAGE 

And  as  for  that  we  change  each  day  and  all 
Our  yesterdays  are  chrysalises  whence 
We  crawled  to  what  we  are.     In  short,  archangels, 
1  have  become  another  soul.     Now  listen  : 

I  have  seen  things  I  cannot  tell  you  of. 

I  have  gained  understandings  past  my  power 

To  give  you  clearly ;   yet  upon  me  rests 

The  teasing  call  to  tell  you,  here  I  lie 

Revolving  this  new  task  of  leadership. 

How  shall  I  make  you  see  I  have  not  failed  you  ? 

Not  really  played  a  treasonous  soul  to  you  ? 

Not  scorned  the  cause  I  gave  you,  kept  you  in  ? 

Or  damned  you  for,  or  made  you  suffer  for  ? 

I  railed  at  heaven,  I  instructed  you 

To  rail  as  well.     How  can  you  understand 

I  now  accept  the  fate  ?     Will  you  despise  me 

For  saying  this  ?     Or  will  you  say  disease 

Has  weakened  me,  cooled  off  the  fire  of  soul 

And  damped  my  courage  ?     Then  go  on  your  way 

To  find  a  worthier  leader  ? 

So  to  doubt 

I  taught  you  once,  but  now  my  mind  believes. 
And  to  deny  the  order  of  the  world 
I  gave  you  words,  now  I  affirm  the  plan. 
To  fight  against  the  gods  in  man's  behalf, 
I  made  my  leadership.     Now  I  perceive 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

The  cause  of  gods  and  men  made  one.     You  see 
It  is  not  individual  gain  that  counts 
In  these  external  benefits  of  freedom 
And  satisfaction  of  material  wants, 
That  counts  so  much,  I  say,  as  inner  chains 
Struck  from  the  wrists,  and  inner  scales  peeled  off 
From  inner  eyes.     I  grant  the  human  cause, 
And  say  this,  —  Can  I  make  you  understand  ? 
To  give  you  proof  my  heart  is  with  you  yet 
Let  me  reveal  my  sacrifice. 

Suppose 

You've  found  a  truth  that  others  knew  before  you, 
Seen,  let  us  say,  the  cat,  as  single  taxers 
Are  wont  to  say  ?     You  hunt  up  some  adherent 
Who's  labored  with  you,  tell  him,  "I'm  convinced, 
I  see  the  cat  at  last."     You  want  to  share 
Your  joy  with  some  one,  want  his  dragging  hope 
To  hear  you  have  arrived.     And  so  with  me 
I  hungered  to  communicate  my  vision 
To  some  one  who  had  seen  it,  and  who  knew 
Its  meaning,  what  it  meant  to  me. 

But  then 

You  archangels  and  hot  Promethean  seed 
Each  time  I  thought  of  making  the  confession 
To  some  delighted  spirit,  ranged  yourselves 
In  thought  around  my  sick  bed,  with  contempt, 


THE   RADICAL'S  MESSAGE 

Or  pained  compassion  written  on  your  brows, 

And  words  like  these :  He  has  deserted  us, 

He  has  surrendered,  cringed  before  the  gods. 

And  so  my  sacrifice  is  this  :  You'll  be 

The  first  to  know  my  second  birth,  you  can 

In  such  case  never  charge  it  up  to  fear, 

Or  weakness,  shrunken  nerves,  or  spirit 

That  lost  the  human  touch  through  the  effects 

Of  some  delirium.     What  mind  so  clear, 

Or  will  so  strong  to  die  with  this  denial 

For  your  sakes  ?     For  it  may  be  best  for  you 

To  live  the  rebel  out  of  you.     And  if 

You  thought  —  at  least  I  fear  it  —  if  you  thought 

I  had  gone  over  to  the  hosts  you  hate, 

As  you  are  now,  through  weakness,  made  my  peace 

With  heaven,  as  you'd  call  it,  just  to  save 

My  wretched  self,  you'd  have  a  mad  regret, 

A  fine  disgust  to  work  through,  added  labor 

To  all  you  must  achieve.     That's  why  I  die, 

And  seal  this  message.     Break  it  on  the  day 

They  make  me  ashes ! 


[215 


BOMBYX 

Sealed  in  a  cocoon-cradle  of  white  silk, 

Locked  fast  in  sleep ; 

Or  bound  for  years  as  a  chrysalid,  while  the  neap 

Creative  tides  rise  to  the  spring  and  slough 

The  torn  strands  and  the  golden  pupa  stuff, 

You  tear  wings  free  for  the  connubial  flight  — 

Break  suddenly  the  embryo  trance,  drift  off, 

Whole  troops  of  you  in  a  looped  and  colorful  clutter 

Wobbling  like  leaves  in  a  fresh  wind's  delight. 

And  over  clover  meadows  in  a  flutter, 

Or  through  sweet  scented  hollows, 

You  seek  the  expectant  mate, 

And  the  mad  moment  where  life  turns  to  death, 

And  both  become  one  essence  and  one  breath, 

One  undivided  fate. 

Together  you  fly 

Drunken  with  life,  yet  mad  to  die, 
Since  soul  achievement  is  death  after  all, 
All  rivals  for  the  wedding  festival. 
Yet  only  one  of  you  can  win  the  prize ; 
The  rest  shall  sink  exhausted  in  defeat, 
While  the  triumphant  bridegroom  dies 
In  his  own  rapture  and  creative  fire  — 
All  perish  in  the  flame  of  their  desire. 


BOMBYX 

For  none  of  you  is  given  strength  to  live 

Beyond  the  quest,  or  the  hymeneal  kiss ; 

The  disappointed  perish 

One  wins  his  joy,  but  may  not  keep  or  cherish 

The  moment  which  contains  it,  sudden  doom 

Falls  on  the  winner  of  his  bliss 

And  on  the  wings  that  quiver  their  frustration. 

Bombyx !   to  have  more  life  than  is  enough 

To  win  the  mate,  achieve  the  one  success, 

And  on  that  life  to  mount  and  half  survey 

The  universe  — 

Build  cities  with  it,  letter  precious  scrolls, 

Plan  for  the  race  to  be  and  have  the  vision 

To  labor  for  of  ages  half  elysian, 

Is  that  a  benediction  or  a  curse  ? 

Is  it  a  good  or  evil  to  have  strength 

To  soar  beyond  the  sun,  or  planets  even 

If  none  of  us  at  length 

Reach  heaven  ? 

If  none  of  our  infatuate  souls 

Sip  the  bright  fire  of  God  ? 

If  it  be  all  a  flying  in  a  dream, 

A  lying  down  at  last  in  deeper  night, 

To  enrich  the  prodigal  sod, 

To  breed  new  wings 

For  the  same  flight  ? 

[217] 


THE  APOLOGY  OF  DEMETRIUS 

Hyacinthus,    your    money,    the    idol    you    ordered    is 

finished. 
May  the  grace  of  Diana  be  with  you  in  strength  un- 

diminished. 

Behold   how  the   breast   of   it   glitters,   as  if  it  were 

wrought  in  with  stipples. 
The   Ephesian  goddess   is   nature   and   these   are   her 

bountiful  nipples. 

So  then  do  I  fear  for  my  trade?     No,  never!     It's 

past  my  conceiving. 
There'll  be  work  for  the  artist  while  gods  change  to 

win  our  believing. 

Come  on  then,  you  babblers  and  madmen  from  Jewry 

and  tell  us  and  show  us  — 
Yes,  come  with  your  tumult  the  like  of  which  never 

was  known  in  Corinth  or  Troas. 

They  crowd  in  the  markets  and  temples  and  gabble  a 

story  that  palters. 
Well,  I  whistle  and  hammer  the  silver,  a  maker  of 

statues  and  altars. 

[218] 


THE  APOLOGY  OF  DEMETRIUS 

Who  says  I  am  wroth  lest  in  Samothrace,  Lystra  and 

Delos 
The  craft  of  the  maker  of  images  fail  through  the 

speech  of  these  fellows  ? 

And  the  temple  of  Artemis  perish  ?     Oh,  well,  however 

they  hate  us 
Can  they  burn  it  as  once  it  was  burned  by  the  wretch 

Herostratus  ? 

But  we  built  it  again  and  carved  it  all  newly  in  beauty 

and  wonder  — 
Destroy  it,  oh  man,  who  was  crazed  by  lightning  and 

roaring  of  thunder ! 

Oh  virgin  Diana,  if  virgin,  what  virgin  whose  altar  is 

older ! 
If  matron  what  breasts  hang  with  milk  for  the  eyes  of 

her  temples'  beholder ! 

For  centuries  gone  —  when  these  Jews  prayed  to  ser 
pents  of  bronze  and  calves  that  were  golden 

In  Ephesus,  Arcady,  Athens,  our  reverent  love  was 
beholden 

To  the  goddess  of  prophecy,  music,  the  lyre,  of  light, 
inspiration, 

Who  guarded  and  watches  the  city  and  lays  the  foun 
dation 

[  219  ] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

Of  nations  and  laws.     What  works  we  have  done,  yea 

still  we  would  heed  her  — 
And  look  at  your  barbarous  ark  in  your  temple  of  jewels 

and  cedar ! 

What  is  our  pollution,  our  idols,  our  sacrificed  things 

which  are  strangled  ? 
I  ask  you   already  divided  in  turbulent  parties  who 

wrangled 

Concerning  salvation  of  God  to  the  faith  of  the  uncir- 

cumcision 
In  Cyprus  and  Paphos,  where  poets  of  love  keep  the 

Hellenic  vision. 

I  am  filled  with  my  loathing !     Oh  keep  me  a  Greek 

though  you  make  me  a  whoreson, 
When  the  worship  of  beauty  is  dead  you  may  pare  off 

my  foreskin. 

When  the  symbol  is  dead  which  I  mould  to  Diana  our 

goddess 
I'll  retire  to  the  country  of  Nod,  no  matter  where  Nod 

is. 

It  will  live  when  your  temples  are  built,  if  any  are 

builded, 

And  Jesus  in  silver  is  nailed  on  a  cross  which  is  gilded. 
[  220  ] 


THE  APOLOGY  OF  DEMETRIUS 

And  touching  this  thing  is  it  different  to  worship  a 

man  or  abstraction  ? 
Or  an  idol  of  silver  or  stone  ?  —  go  talk  to  your  spirit's 

distraction ! 

Areopagus  listened  to  Paul,  I  am  told,  for  Athens  is 
spending 

Her  time,  as  of  old,  in  weighing  new  things  and  at 
tending. 

They  heard  him  in  silence!  Let  his  arguments  pass 
uncorrected  — 

Why,  Plato  had  told  us  of  Er  from  the  dead  resur 
rected  ! 

Now,  mark  me !  For  showing  the  wisdom,  compas 
sion  of  poets  and  sages 

That  silence  like  lightning  will  aureole  Paul  to  the  end 
of  the  ages. 

Oh  Athens,  who  set  up  that  shrine,  do  you  think  it  was 

just  superstition 
Which  carved  for  all  passers  to  see  that  profoundest 

inscription : 

To  the  unknown  God  ?     Do  you  think  it  was  cowardice 

even  ? 
Make  altars   and  gods   as  you   will,   unknown  is  the 

planeted  heaven. 

[221] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

And  we  who  are  richest  in  gods  —  have  exhausted  all 

thought  in  creating 
Both  symbols  and  shapes  for  interpreted  loving  and 

hating 

Still  sense  the  Unknown,  though  in  blindness,  in  love 

as  in  duty 
Would  worship  it  most  —  the  Unknown  is  the  ultimate 

beauty. 

Yes,  Athens  who  set  up  the  altar  and  chiseled  the  wor 
shipful  letters 

To  the  Unknown  God  —  what  ignorance  fastened  with 
fetters 

Did  you  loosen,  oh  wonder  of  Tarsus,  how  help  their 

unknowing 
Who  told  them  he  dwelt  not  in  temples,  nor  needed 

the  flowing 

Of  prayers  from  men's  hearts  —  the  Giver  of  life  and 

of  all  things,  and  seeing 
He  is  lord  of  the  heavens,  in  whom  we  are  living  and 

having  our  being. 

So  quoting  our  poet  who  centuries  since  with  the  mon 
arch  Gonatas 

Lived  and  wrote  the  Phaenomena,  known  to  the 
Greeks  as  Aratus. 

[222] 


THE  APOLOGY  OF  DEMETRIUS 

And  yet  Hyacinthus  I  pity  this  Paul  for  profoundest 

compassion 
Of  Jesus  before  him.     This  sky  and  this  earth  I  can 

fashion 

Through  mystical  wonder  or  fear  to  the  Sphinx  or  the 

Minotaur  dreaded. 
There's  Persephone  dying  and  rising,  and  Cerberus  the 

dog  many-headed. 

We  have  thought  it  all  through !     Yet  I  say  if  a  virtue 

Elysian 
Resides   in   the   doctrine    I'll   leave   off   the   goddess 

Ephesian ; 

Sell  my  tools,  shut  my  shop,  worship  God  in  a  way 

that  is  safer, 
Make  the  Unknown  the  known !     Have  they  shown 

you  a  magical  wafer  ? 


223 


A  PLAY  IN  FOUR  ACTS 

Act  One 

There  was  slight  rain  that  afternoon, 
And  tempest  in  the  apple  trees ; 
But  as  the  sun  went  down  the  moon 
Sailed  swiftly  to  a  western  breeze. 

Day  kindled  something  in  your  blood, 
Your  fancies  roved  with  dove  and  hawk ; 
There  was  no  promise  in  your  mood 
Nor  soft  assurance  in  your  talk. 

I  felt  you  might  mislead  my  trust 
And  slight  a  love  too  surely  yours ; 
You  were  so  wild,  I  felt  you  must 
Be  kindred  to  the  woods  and  moors. 

But  when  we  passed  the  orchard  through 
The  dusk  had  crept  into  the  sky ; 
Your  eyes  betrayed  a  dream  which  grew 
Until  I  thought  I  heard  you  sigh. 

You  were  an  ardent  star  that  waited 
For  night  to  be  yourself  and  show 

[224] 


A  PLAY  IN  FOUR  ACTS 

How  surely  afternoon  had  fated 
A  love  that  nothing  could  forego. 

Act  Two 

The  sky  was  full  of  clouds  at  rest 
Like  dolphins  in  a  waste  of  blue. 
We  tramped  along  a  country  road 
Into  the  village,  I  and  you. 

The  dogwood  bloomed  along  the  fences. 
We  heard  the  songs  of  larks  and  thrushes. 
The  country  door-yards  teemed  with  hues 
Of  lilac  trees  and  almond  bushes. 

The  long  blaze  of  the  setting  sun 
Shone  in  your  eyes  and  analyzed 
Their  little  rifts  of  gray  and  brown, 
And  left  your  secret  undisguised. 

And  I  was  silent  thinking  over 
The  old  threads  raveled  from  your  heart. 
I  hear  you  clearer  now  than  then : 
"How  can  we  part  ?     How  can  we  part  ?" 

Act  Three 

Shadows  upon  the  wall 

And  the  ghost  of  a  past  on  the  floor, 

Here  where  the  hours  made  carnival 

In  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Q  [  225  ] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

And  the  chamber  is  cold  and  bare, 
And  the  wax  from  the  taper  drips  ; 
But  I  bury  my  face  in  your  hair, 
And  swoon  at  the  touch  of  your  lips. 

We  went  from  the  house  to  the  wood, 
But  never  a  word  we  spoke ; 
And  an  eerie  wind  like  our  mood 
Rustled  the  leaves  of  the  oak. 

Dead  leaves,  tremulous,  crisp, 
That  breathed  a  forgotten  tune ; 
A  cloud  the  shape  of  a  wisp 
Blotted  the  soaring  moon. 

Silent  we  walked  the  path, 
And  then  the  wild  farewell ; 
I  saw  your  form  like  a  wraith 
Fade  in  the  forest's  dell. 

If  joy  would  never  depart, 

If  we  could  but  still  the  pain  — 

Dear,  I  awoke  with  a  pang  in  my  heart 

And  heard  the  sound  of  the  rain. 

Act  Four 

Michigan  Avenue  streams  with  people  — 
Ten  years  alter  the  avenue. 
It's  April  again,  and  there  are  dolphin 
Clouds  at  rest  in  a  waste  of  blue. 

[226] 


A  PLAY  IN  FOUR  ACTS 

A  girl  goes  by  with  a  spray  of  lilacs 
Pinned  at  her  breast,  and  quick  as  thought 
Country  fences,  dogwood  blossoms 
Over  the  granite  scene  are  wrought. 

You  come  in  my  mind !     It's  spoiled  by  the  glimpse 
Of  a  monster  diamond  that  glints  and  glows ; 
A  black-eyed  Gadarene  goes  past 
Insolent,  heavy,  and  hooked  of  nose. 

I  scan  his  face  that  runs  with  fat, 
And  the  fleshly  sag  of  his  under  lip ; 
Then  back  to  the  diamond  again,  the  hand 
Holds  your  arm  with  a  master  grip ! 


^^^\ 


THEODORE  DREISER 

Jack  o'  Lantern  tall  shouldered, 

One  eye  set  higher  than  the  other, 

Mouth  cut  like  a  scallop  in  a  pie, 

Aslant  showing  powerful  teeth. 

Swaying  above  the  heads  of  others. 

Jubilant  with  fixed  eyes,  scarcely  sparkling. 

Moving  about  rhythmically,  exploding  in  laughter. 

Touching  fingers  together  back  and  forth, 

Or  toying  with  a  handkerchief. 

And  the  eyes  burn  like  a  flame  at  the  end  of  a  funnel. 

And  the  ruddy  face  glows  like  a  pumpkin 

On  Halloween ! 

Or  else  a  gargoyle  of  bronze 

Turning  suddenly  to  life 

And  slipping  suddenly  down  corners  of  stone 

To  eat  you : 

Full  of  questions,  objections, 

Distinctions,  instances. 

Contemptuous,  ironical,  remote, 

Cloudy,  irreverent,  ferocious, 

Fearless,  grim,  compassionate,  yet  hateful, 

[228] 


THEODORE  DREISER 

Old,  yet  young,  wise  but  virginal. 

To  whom  everything  is  new  and  strange  : 

Whence  he  stares  and  wonders, 

Laughs,  mocks,  curses. 

Disordered,  yet  with  a  passion  for  order 

And  classification  —  hence  the  habitual 

Folding  into  squares  of  a  handkerchief. 

Or  else  a  well  cultivated  and  fruitful  valley, 

But  behind  it  unexplored  fastnesses, 

Gorges,  precipices,  and  heights 

Over  which  thunder  clouds  hang, 

From  which  lightning  falls, 

Stirring  up  terrible  shapes  of  prey 

That  slink  about  in  the  blackness. 

The  silence  of  him  is  terrifying 

As  if  you  sat  before  the  sphinx. 

The  look  of  his  eyes  makes  tubes  of  the  air 

Through  which  you  are  magnified  and  analyzed. 

He  needs  nothing  of  you  and  wants  nothing. 

He  is  alone,  but  content, 

Self-mastered  and  beyond  friendship, 

You  could  not  hurt  him. 

If  he  would  allow  himself  to  have  a  friend 

He  could  part  from  that  friend  forever 

And  in  a  moment  be  lost  in  wonder 

Staring  at  a  carved  rooster  on  a  doorstep, 

Or  at  an  Italian  woman 

[229] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

Giving  suck  to  a  child 

On  a  seat  in  Washington  Square. 

Soul  enwrapped  demi-urge 
Walking  the  earth, 
Stalking  Life  ! 


[230] 


JOHN  COWPER  POWYS 

Astronomer  and  biologist 

And  chemical  analyst  and  microscopist, 

Observer  of  men's  involuted  shells 

Where  they  conceal  their  hate  and  even  their  love 

Under  insipid  ooze  or  nacreous  stuff. 

Tracer  of  criss-cross  steps  made  when  great  hells 

Kept  lime  as  soft  as  wax 

Which  thereupon  took  the  imprint  of  the  air 

From  gnat-like  wings  of  joy  or  shadowy  care. 

He  makes  hard  secrets  stand  in  the  cul  de  sac's 

Entrance  and  face  him  till  he  lays  all  bare 

That  eyes  hold  or  heart  of  blood  contains, 

And  curious  traits  in  diverse  curious  brains, 

And  starved  desires  in  hearts  and  hopes  forgot 

Under  the  sifting  ashes  of  one's  lot. 

X-ray  photographer  who  flashes 

What's  in  you  out  of  you  with  sudden  crashes 

Of  wit  or  oratory  in  a  flood. 

He  samples  and  tests  the  book's,  also  your  blood. 

Shows  what  you  are  and  whence  you  came, 

And  who  your  kindred  are,  and  what  your  flame 

In  heat  and  color  is.     Poet  and  wag, 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

Prophet,  magician  taking  from  a  bag 

Eggs,  rabbits,  silver  globes  ;   the  old  engram  ! 

Scoffer  with  reverence,  visioned,  quick  to  damn, 

Yet  laugh  at,  looking  keenly  through  the  sham. 

Confessing  his  own  sins,  devoid  of  shame. 

He  knows  himself  and  laughs, 

Or  blames  himself  as  he  would  others  blame. 

A  naughty  boy  who  kicks  away  the  staff 

Which  poor  decrepits  walk  by,  nearly  blind, 

Then  hurrying  up  with  varied  thought  to  find 

Medicinal  clay  with  which  dim  eyes  to  heal. 

What  is  the  human  secret  but  Proteus'  ? 
And  who  can  catch  the  old  man  but  his  kind  ?  . 
He  was  Poseidon's  herdsman,  knew  the  streams 
Of  early  being,  sea-filled  ponds  and  sluices, 
Where  life  took  birth  through  elemental  dreams. 
And  Proteus  glanced  with  lightning  and  divined 
The  cause  of  Bacchus'  madness.     But  at  noon 
He  counted  his  sea-calves  and  ocean-sheep 
On  Carpathos  where  waters  made  a  tune 
Following  the  Orphic  sun  out  of  the  deep  — 
Then  in  his  cave  he  hid  him,  turned  to  sleep.  .  . 

So  runs  our  life  to  change !   and  who  can  catch 
The  Protean  thought  must  watch, 
And  be  adept  at  wrestling,  in  the  chase. 
And  know  the  god  whatever  be  his  face, 

[232] 


JOHN  COWPER   POWYS 

Through  roar  of  water  where  the  porpoises 
And  extravagant  dolphins  play,  in  silences 
Of  noon  or  midnight.     So  John  Cowper  Powys 
You  stand  before  us  gesturing,  shoulder  bent 
A  little  like  King  Richard,  frizzed  of  hair, 
Rolling  your  eye  for  secrets,  for  the  word. 
The  thresher  of  your  mind  is  eloquent 
With  hulls  and  flakes  of  words,  until  at  last 
The  kernel  itself  pops  out,  not  long  deferred.  .  . 

Here  is  our  wrestler  then, 

Hunter  of  secrets  of  creative  souls. 

Eluded  he  may  be,  he  tries  again. 

His  hand  slips  clutching  at  the  irised  shoals 

Of  rapturous  thought.     And  at  times  his  eyes 

Are  blinded  by  a  light,  or  a  disguise. 

But  finally  both  eye  and  hand 

Obey  the  infallible  senses'  brave  command  — 

He  catches  Proteus  then,  and  with  a  shout, 

The  god  shouts  too,  and  we  who  watch  the  bout 

Join  in  the  panic  of  their  merriment ! 


233 


NEW  YEAR'S  DAY 

She  was  a  woman  who  even  as  a  child 

Hungered  for  gifts  with  hunger  passionate 

And  in  her  childhood  made  a  hard  fate 

For  a  father  who  had  failed  and  who  was  wild 

With  a  kind  of  laughing  despair, 

That  comes  of  having  failed. 

She  had  plain  dresses,  only  a  little  strand 

Of  coral  beads,  and  ribbons  for  her  hair 

Bestowed  by  grandmama.     And  on  her  hand 

A  ring  of  beads  that  maddened  her  and  paled 

Beside  the  gold  rings  other  girls  could  show. 

So  she  grew  up  out  of  this  woe 

Of  wanting  and  not  having  things. 

And  round  this  nucleus  of  desire 

Her  nature  wound  itself  into  a  spire, 

As  a  vine  climbs  up  and  clings 

Till  it  becomes  the  tree ; 

So  she  became  all  fire 

For  the  world's  glittering  glory. 

Then  in  the  process  of  her  being's  story 
She  married  a  man  of  riches  and  took  over 
Dresses  and  jewels,  houses,  with  her  lover. 

[234] 


NEW  YEAR'S  DAY 

And  learned  the  ways  of  Paris  and  New  York, 

And  how  to  sit,  or  look,  or  use  one's  fork. 

And  how  to  speak  in  French,  and  how  to  dress. 

And  how  to  find  and  use  the  loveliness 

That  gold   brings.     And   she   lived   where  thought   is 

white 

With  its  great  longing  for  the  infinite, 
Where  pale  youths  dream  and  write, 
And  starve  and  lie  awake  at  night ; 
Where  sculpture,  music  and  where  painting  is 
On  priceless  canvases. 
But  none  of  this  saw  she 
In  feeding  her  desire  with  jollity 
In  the  cafes  and  in  society ; 
Wherever  the  denials  of  her  youth 
Could  be  made  whole,  or  leveled  up 
With  idle  splendor  or  the  champagne  cup. 
That  was  her  dream  of  making  her  life  truth, 
Till  she  devoured  her  husband  like  a  leman  — 
She  was  at  last  one  of  this  kind  of  women. 
Then  as  a  widow  she  came  journeying  back 
With  trunks  and  maids  upon  a  New  Year's  day 
Over  her  childhood's  disappointed  track. 

Her  father  meanwhile  had  gone  on  the  way 
Which  was  his  at  the  start. 
His  life  was  like  a  bruise  which  does  not  smart 
Now  that  it  has  grown  hard. 

[235] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

And  he  was  stoical  like  one  who  hugs 

His  inner  self  until  sensation  dies, 

Or  dulls  his  fears  or  sorrows  with  strong  drugs. 

There  was  a  light  of  hardness  in  his  eyes 

Through  which  no  one  could  see  his  secret  pain. 

Failure  had  made  him  so  —  he  could  explain 

To  no  one  how  he  had  been  caught  in  life ; 

Sometimes  it  seemed  himself,  sometimes  his  wife, 

And  he  had  thought  of  it  so  much  he  lost 

Perspective  of  himself,  therefore  he  kept 

Great  silence,  speaking  little,  even  then 

But  trivial  things.     He  trod  his  path  and  slept, 

And  rose  to  tread  the  path  and  slept  again. 

He  was  resolved  to  pay  the  bitter  cost 

And  not  cry  out  —  his  thinking  stood  on  guard 

To  this  end  chiefly. 

With  impassive  heart 
He  wrote  his  daughter  on  a  postal  card 
To  come,  if  it  should  please  her,  and  be  home 
On  Christmas,  if  she  could,  on  New  Year's  day 
If  she  preferred,  but  anyway  to  come. 

If  a  ghost  could  patch  its  tomb 

With  a  trowel  from  time  to  time, 

If  it  had  a  little  lime, 

So  as  to  stop  the  cracks  and  growing  rifts, 

That  would  be  like  this  man  who  hated  gifts 

[236] 


NEW  YEAR'S   DAY 

Because  he  scarce  could  give  them,  and  had  patched 

With  hardness  where  his  heart  had  broken 

In  years  gone  for  the  holidays  when  she 

Cried  in  such  ignorance  of  his  poverty. 

Now  with  walled  feelings  he  could  sit  unspoken 

Of  what  he  felt,  regretted,  or  had  lost  — 

He  was  that  kind  of  ghost. 

So  when  the  daughter  came  he  only  had 

Her  mother  and  the  dinner,  greetings  glad, 

And  certain  pride  because  her  life  had  matched 

With  childhood's  hopes  —  but  still  he  had  no  gifts 

For  Christmas  or  for  New  Year's,  and  the  daughter 

Wept  when  she  found  it  so,  —  'twas  always  so,  — 

It  made  her  youthful  bitterness  alive. 

And  so  she  spilled  her  water 

Out  of  a  trembling  hand  at  dinner  and  arose 

And  left  the  table.     But  with -specs  on  nose 

Self-mastered,  not  revealing 

What  was  his  feeling, 

The  father  ate  the  dinner  alone,  while  mother 

Was  comforting  the  daughter. 

"He  might  have  given  me  a  dollar,  a  little  book, 

A  handkerchief,  or  any  other 

Little  thing,  he  always  acted  so." 

The  mother  tried  to  soothe  her  daughter's  woe. 

But  while  they  were  together,  the  father  took 

His  steps  up  town  and  when  the  two  came  back 

[237] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

They  found  him  gone  and  the  room  growing  black 
From  falling  night.  .  .  . 

But  later  he  came  in 

And  sat  by  the  fire  all  silent.     This  had  been 
His  New  Year's  day !     And  later  his  wife  came 
And  sat  across  him  silent  in  her  blame 
Of  him  and  of  his  life. 

She  said  at  last : 
"Blanche  is  heart  sick." 

"Well,  I  am  sixty-five," 

He  answered  her,  "and  never  while  I'm  alive 
Will  I  remember  Christmas  or  a  New  Year's  day. 
I'm  glad  so  many  of  such  days  are  past, 
They  have  been  always  this  way.     We  had  dinner 
And  ourselves  for  her  and  she  brought  herself 
And  nothing  else.     This  is  the  way  to  win  her 
Admiration,  yet  this  thing  of  giving 
Dollars  or  books,  wins  only  a  little  thrill 
Of  tickled  pride  or  egotism,  still 
I  might  have  done  it,  just  to  have  the  peace 
Of  her  self-satisfaction." 

Said  the  wife : 

"You  might  find  happiness  in  her  happiness. 
The  only  thing  you  understand  in  living 

[238] 


NEW  YEAR'S   DAY 

Is  how  to  stand  your  misery,  one  can  guess 
The  working  of  your  thought." 

Ere  she  could  cease 

The  daughter  entered  like  the  devil's  elf, 
And  saw  her  father  bent  before  the  fire, 
And  saw  the  back  of  his  head  which  spoke  to  her 
Of  hardness,  or  of  something  that  she  hated 
Which  moved  her  pity  and  her  hate  at  once. 

And  then  the  mother  said :   "You  two  are  fated 
To  be  as  blind  as  two  cliffs  to  each  other. 
You  need  I  think  a  spiritual  re-birth, 
Something  that  you  could  have  upon  this  earth. 
For  I  can  see  a  book  or  handkerchief 
Would  give  one  happiness  and  one  relief 
From  hardness  which  is  girding  in  your  soul. 
That  would  be  rich  return  for  small  outlay, 
God  give  us  all  another  New  Year's  day." 


[239 


PLAYING  BLIND 

You  used  to  play  at  being  blind  — 
Now  you  are  blind  —  you  used  to  say : 
"Play  I  am  blind  and  help  me  find 
Where  the  gate  opens  on  the  way." 

I  laughed  at  you,  we  laughed  together 
When  you  were  playing  blind,  your  staff 
My  walking  cane  of  varnished  leather  — 
Now  you  are  blind  and  still  you  laugh. 

You  sit  beneath  the  reading  lamp 
With  long  lashed  eyelids  closed  and  pale 
And  make  me  read  you  Riley's  Tramp, 
And  Grimm  and  many  a  fairy  tale. 

Sometimes  I  stop  —  you  see  I  choke 
Before  the  tale  is  done  by  half  — 
One's  eyes  blur  from  tobacco  smoke  — 
I  cannot  laugh  now  when  you  laugh. 


240] 


I  SHALL  NEVER  SEE  YOU  AGAIN 

If  I  could  only  see  you  again  — 

If  I  could  only  see  you  again ! 

How  can  it  be 

I  shall  never  see  you  again  ? 

For  the  world  has  shown  it  can  roll  on  its  way 

And  blot  you  out  forever  — 

And  I  shall  never  see  you  again ! 

I  thrill  as  one  who  slips  on  the  edge  of  a  gulf 

When  I  think  I  shall  never  see  you  again ! 

As  a  dead  leaf  is  hurtled  over  the  tops  of  trees ; 

As   a   dead   leaf  is   dizzily   driven   through   woodland 

valleys 

I  am  driven  and  tossed  in  the  storms  of  living. 
But  as  the  dead  leaf  escapes  the  breeze's  fingers, 
And  sinks  till  it  nestles  motionless  under  a  rock 
So  in  quiet  moments  I  dream 
Of  you, 

I  dream  of  all  that  you  were  — 
And  I  shall  never  see  you  again ! 

There  never  was  any  one  like  you  ! 
There  never  yet  was  such  joy  in  a  heart, 
R  [  241  ] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

Such  strength  to  live  whatever  the  fate, 

Such  love  to  love, 

Such  thought  to  see  how  life  is  good, 

Such  maternal  passion, 

Such  breasts  eager  to  nurse  child  after  child  — 

And  I  shall  never  see  you  again ! 

Your  breasts  were  made  to  suckle  conquerors, 

Warriors,  prophets, 

Invincible  souls 

Loving  life,  and  loving  death  at  last. 

And  now  your  breasts  are  dust, 

You  are  all  dust, 

You  are  lost  save  for  my  memory. 

And  this  morning  I  woke 

As  a  leaf  might  wake  in  its  sheltered  place 

Under  the  rock 

Stirred  by  a  breath  of  April. 

And  I  lived  again  the  last  time  I  saw  you  — 

The  last  visit ! 

You  were  almost  ninety  then. 

But  there  was  the  old  zest  in  your  heart 

To  do  all  things  and  have  all  things 

Unchanged,  as  I  had  known  them 

As  a  boy. 

You  gave  me  the  same  room, 

Nothing  was  changed, 

[242] 


I  SHALL  NEVER  SEE  YOU  AGAIN 

Not  a  chair,  a  curtain,  a  picture. 

And  you  came  up-stairs  before  it  was  day 

And  lighted  a  fire  in  the  little  stove 

To  have  the  room  warm  for  me  to  dress  in  — 

There  never  was  love  like  yours  ! 

And  I  went  down  to  the  kitchen  and  found  you 

Frying  batter  cakes,  and  laughing, 

And  bringing  back  my  boyhood  days 

With  the  old  stories. 

And  how  you  kissed  me,  and  hugged  me 

With  your  withered  arms  ! 

And  then  you  sat  down  with  me, 

And  ate  with  me  as  of  old, 

And  brought  out  priceless  jars  of  things 

Which  you  had  made  and  saved  for  me ! 

The  breath  of  memory  stirs  me 

Under  the  rock. 

I  must  have  the  madness  of  life  to  drive  me, 

To  toss  me 

Into  forgetfulness  of  my  loss  of  you  — 

For  I  shall  never  see  you  again ! 


243 


ELIZABETH  TO  MONSIEUR  D 

I  pace  the  rooms  and  wait  for  John's  return. 
My  heart  beats  all  too  fast,  I  feel  a  pain 
Around  my  heart,  my  hands  grow  cold,  I  burn 
Through  neck  and  cheeks.     And  thus  I  live  in  vain. 
John  comes  at  last  and  says,  "There  is  no  mail, 
No  letter  for  you."     And  with  whirling  brain 
I  turn  away  in  silence,  growing  pale, 
And  whisper  to  myself :   to  be  resigned 
To  wretchedness  perhaps,  is  to  prevail 
O'er  wretchedness  and  win  a  peace  of  mind. 
To  love  you  so,  to  thirst  for  you,  to  pay 
For  outward  calm  with  inner  storms  confined, 
To  lie  awake  by  night  and  spend  the  day 
In  restless  thoughts,  is  life  too  hard  to  bear. 
I  see  you  in  my  troubled  dreams  alway, 
You  face  me  with  a  grave  and  haughty  air, 
Serene,  incensed  against  me  who  intrude 
An  interest  which  you  have  no  heart  to  share. 
Forgive  me  then  my  sorrow's  servitude, 
To  write  to  you  my  suffering  will  ease, 
And  fill  the  aching  of  my  solitude. 
I  have  gone  forth  to  Nature  to  find  peace : 
[844] 


ELIZABETH  TO  MONSIEUR  D 

The  woods  are  filled  with  purple  lupine  now, 

'Small  yellow  asters,  phlox,  and  cramoisies 

Of  columbine  and  roses,  vine  and  bough. 

The  wild  grape  and  the  cherry  haunt  the  dunes 

With  odors  sweet  as  love.     To  cool  my  brow 

I  walk  the  heights  upon  these  afternoons 

And  watch  the  blue  waste  of  the  sky's  descent. 

And  yesterday  where  golden  light  festoons 

With  flickering  sorcery  the  way  we  went 

'Twixt  sprays  of  beech  and  sassafras  I  stole 

Till  once  again  at  the  hill's  top  half-spent 

I  saw  the  shore  dunes  and  the  waters  roll. 

We  climbed  it  once  together  —  it  was  there 

The  Bacchic  madness  came  into  your  soul 

To  take  me  in  your  arms.     And  now  I  bear 

Your  coldness,  your  reproaches,  you  who  call 

My  longing  and  my  spiritual  despair 

A  mere  neurosis,  or  hysterical 

Outcropping  to  be  conquered.     It  was  wrong 

To  take  me  in  your  arms,  and  then  when  all 

Was  not  yours  then  to  tell  me  to  be  strong, 

And  urge  your  marriage  vows  now  I  have  thought 

The  problem  of  my  love  through.     I  belong 

To  you  Monsieur ;   whatever  grief  is  wrought 

Of  body  or  of  soul  to  satisfy 

The  flame  is  better,  and  is  far  less  fraught 

With  mad  regret  than  it  can  be  to  lie 

In  restless  torture.     O  my  friend  withdraw 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

Your  friendship  from  me  never  lest  I  die ! 
Yes,  I  could  live  and  work  if  I  foresaw 
Your  friendship  mine  and  letters  by  your  hand 
Arriving  in  this  lonely  place  to  thaw 
The  ice  around  my  heart's  flame.     Understand 
From  those  I  love  but  little  love  I  need : 
Crumbs  from  your  feast  you  scarce  can  countermand, 
And  crumbs  are  all  I  ask,  and  just  the  meed 
Of  friendly  interest.     I  abase  my  pride. 
The  strong  can  suffer  silently  and  bleed 
As  long  as  strength  lasts,  keep  the  blood  inside, 
Until  one  weakens  when  it  spurts  and  drips. 
And  Pride  turns  Nature,  careless  now  to  hide 
The  inner  bleeding  bubbling  at  the  lips. 
I  write  you  this  without  regret  or  shame. 
My  strength  has  left  me  in  the  blue  eclipse 
Of  agony.     Monsieur,  I  take  the  blame, 
If  any  come,  of  fanning  dangerously 
The  spark  that  brightened  once  and  would  be  flame  — 
Is  that  not  true  ?     Or  do  you  say  to  me : 
"You  are  no  more  my  pupil,  I  retrench 
"The  memory  of  things  that  cease  to  be, 
"And  go  my  way  with  teaching  young  girls  French, 
"As  I  taught  you.     Two  years  have  passed  since  then. 
"What  is  this  thought  that  time  has  failed  to  quench  ? 
"You  who  are  laureled  in  the  world  of  men, 
"A  genius  risen  like  a  morning  star, 
"Does  not  that  glory  fill  you  ?"     Yet  again 
[246] 


ELIZABETH  TO  MONSIEUR   D 

I  answer  you  one's  genius  burns  afar 

In  useless  splendor  if  it  warm  no  cheek, 

Make  bright  no  eye,  lead  on  no  darkling  spar  — 

Genius  is  love,  is  freedom,  it  must  speak, 

Work  out  its  fate  from  egocentric  life ; 

It  is  more  swift  than  other  feet  to  seek 

Its  ruin  with  its  hope,  or  take  the  knife 

More  willingly  to  breast  than  those  who  sink 

In  involuted  growth.     To  be  your  wife 

I  do  not  dream,  I  only  wish  to  drink 

The  cup  with  you  and  break  the  bread  with  you, 

To  feel  thereby  our  lives  are  one  and  think 

We  are  one  creed  and  one  communion,  new 

In  spirit,  born  anew,  that  I  may  have 

An  altar  for  my  genius,  something  true 

And  near  in  flesh  to  triumph  for,  or  brave 

The  world  or  evil  for.     Genius  is  love. 

It  cannot  bear  itself  alone  to  save ; 

It  must  another  rescue,  it  must  prove 

Its  growing  strength  in  ministry.     Monsieur, 

Bruise  not  my  soul  by  ignorance  hereof, 

My  reverend  father  thinks  my  thoughts  are  pure 

If  he  should  read  this  !     But  if  you  dismiss 

This  letter  with  a  smile  and  say  her  cure 

Is  the  reaction  of  forbidden  bliss, 

It  is  most  true,  but  you  would  not  degrade 

My  love  for  you  with  that  analysis, 

And  that  alone.     For  surely  God  who  made 

[247] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

Our  souls  and  bodies  so  meant  we  should  rise 
Through  their  desires,  and  does  God  pervade 
This  glowing  mass  of  life,  these  starry  skies 
With  other  power  ?     Now  scorn  me,  if  you  will. 
The  unburdened  heart  has  tamed  its  agonies. 


248] 


MONSIEUR  D TO  THE  PSYCHOANALYST 

In  time  I'll  tell  you  all  the  dreams  I've  had  — 

But  now  —  well,  let  me  think  !     O  yes  three  times 

I've  dreamed  a  creature  with  a  dragon's  head, 

Which  was  her  head  as  well,  for  so  it  seemed, 

Gemmed  with  her  brazen  eyes  half  luminous 

And  half  opaque,  slate  colored,  lay  across 

My  breast  and  hurt  my  heart,  and  breathed  her  breath 

From  half-dead,  livid  overlapping  lips 

(As  when  you  crush  a  snake's  head  jaws  will  lie 

Awry  and  out  of  plumb)  like  pestilence 

Right  in  my  nostrils.     This  interpreted 

Means  characters  are  breaths,  and  most  are  bad 

When    closely    known.     Such    breath    suits    well    the 

dragon, 

But  would  not  suit  her,  so  you'd  think  to  see 
How  fair  her  face,  how  seeming  fair  her  soul. 
So  let  me  tell  you. 

All  my  hair  is  gray, 

My  youth  is  gone,  pretense  will  work  no  more. 
I'm  fifty-seven,  yet  I  cling  to  youth, 
Because  I  cling  to  love,  have  never  known 
Aught  but  successions  of  immoderate  —  what  ? 

1*49] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

Some  call  it  lust  —  you  call  it  libido. 

Well  it  is  urge,  creative  fire  and  drives 

The  artist  half-soul  mad,  as  I  am  mad  — 

Look  how  my  poor  hand  trembles,  my  voice  breaks 

No !     I'll  go  on.     I'll  tell  you  all,  be  done. 

Then  if  you  cannot  cure  me,  there's  a  balm 

I  know  myself. 

If  I  had  only  loved 
Elizabeth,  who  wrote  me  years  ago 
Such  pleading  letters  —  every  man  can  win 
Some  woman's  love  completely,  had  she  won 
My  love  as  well !     O  what  a  monstrous  world 
Where  such  envenomed  fire  is,  held  by  Chance 
And  shot  in  blindness.     So  she  felt  the  flame 
And  looked  on  me,  I  felt  the  flame  and  looked 
Uoon  this  cockatrice. 

So  as  I  said 

I  had  been  teacher,  actor,  writer,  poet, 
Had  seen  my  face  on  lithographs,  felt  warm 
In  every  capillary  for  that  face 
Which  seemed  star-guided,  noble,  to  be  loved, 
Revered,  and  thus  through  self-esteem  I  bore 
My  failures  hoping,  buoyed  by  some  success 
As  the  swift  years  went  by. 

But  on  a  day 
When  I  was  forty-five,  looked  thirty-five, 

[250] 


MONSIEUR  D TO  THE  PSYCHOANALYST 

No  gray  hairs  then,  they  called  me  thirty-five, 

My  name  went  round  the  city,  in  the  press 

They  hailed  me  as  a  genius,  I  had  played 

Othello  to  their  liking,  was  yet  young 

And  promised  much,  they  said.     That  afternoon 

A  woman  came  to  see  me  in  my  suite, 

Wonder  and  admiration  in  her  eyes. 

Her  manner  halted,  as  she  thumbed  a  book 

Upon  the  table,  while  she  told  her  tale : 

She  had  won  favor  as  an  amateur, 

Could  I,  the  greatest  talked  of  man  to-day, 

Show  her  the  way  to  greatness,  might  it  be 

A  modest  part  could  be  assigned  to  her 

When  I  played  mad  Othello  ? 

I  have  found 

That  when  a  woman  has  no  business  with  you 
Her  calling  speaks  the  oldest  one  of  all. 
So  true  to  this  I  acted.     We  commenced 
And  for  three  months  I  struggled  for  the  prize. 
Her  first  play  was  to  make  me  pity  her. 
She  told  me  of  her  suffering,  her  youth, 
(She  was  then  thirty-five),  her  poverty, 
Her  labor  to  learn  French.     And  like  a  man 
I  pitied  her  and  opened  up  my  purse. 
She  said,  "No!   No!   this  hat  and  dress  will  do, 
It  brushes  well."     She  would  not  take  a  cent. 
I  saw  her  daily  for  a  month  before 

[251] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

I  won  her.     Though  she  gave  me  hands  and  lips  — 

There  was  a  fury  in  her  lips,  my  heart 

Seemed  like  to  stop  —  I  could  not  win  the  prize. 

One  day  she  broke  in  tears  :   "You  seemed  so  noble, 

So  great  of  mind,  are  you  then  like  the  rest 

Who  want  a  woman's  body,  nothing  else  ?" 

"I  want  your  love,"  I  said,  "your  love  for  mine, 

I  love  you,  dearest!"  faugh,  must  I  repeat 

The  gagging  words  ?     So  I  declared  the  love 

I  felt  too  deeply,  and  to  prove  my  love 

I  added  :   "I'll  renounce  the  gift  of  love, 

My  Lady  Wonderful,  worship  you  afar. 

You  would  not  have  me  tortured  by  your  eyes, 

Nor  have  me  see  you  often,  in  this  case !" 

So  I  had  given  love  as  I  had  given 

All  wealth  that  I  could  pour  of  soul,  achievement, 

Name  in  the  world,  all  pride,  all  thought  of  self 

Present  or  future  to  this  woman,  now 

For  love's  sake  I  renounced  the  gift  of  love. 

And  so  I  left  her.     Well,  she  called  me  back. 

And  though  I  was  a  fool,  and  blinded  too, 

I  saw  her  thought  and  won  her  in  an  hour. 

So  then  commenced  my  madness,  for  she  said 

It  could  not  be  again.     The  blood  I  tasted 

Could  not  be  drunk.     "You  love  me,"  she  would  say, 

"Then  bring  me  not  to  shame,  it  will  be  known 

If  we  go  on.     I  cannot  lose  my  bread. 

Librarians  cannot  have  their  names  in  doubt 

[252] 


MONSIEUR  D TO  THE  PSYCHOANALYST 

Who  serve  the  public,  as  I  do."     So  it  was 

The  madness  braced  my  will,  and  unrelenting 

I  sought  her,  won  her.     In  a  little  while 

We  were  adjusted  to  habitual  love. 

And  I  was  happy  save  when  I  was  mad. 

For  she  knew  younger  men  who  came  to  call 

Or  take  her  to  the  theatre,  with  one 

She  corresponded.     "Let  it  be,"  she  said, 

"I  must  not  be  in  public  with  you,  dear, 

Whose  name  and  greatness  in  the  world  would  point 

To  our  relationship,  how  could  it  be 

You  would  be  with  a  woman  without  station, 

Celebrity  or  wealth,  except  for  this  ? 

These  others  are  a  blind." 

I  could  not  solve 

Out  of  the  whirling  clouds  of  passion  truth  — 
My  days  were  tortured,  in  the  dreams  of  sleep 
I  saw  this  dragon  head  I  told  you  of. 
And  so  through  heavy  venery,  and  dread, 
And  anger,  doubt,  faith,  love  and  much  of  hate, 
I  took  to  drink. 

So  drinking  with  her  once, 

For  she  could  drink  me  blind,  I  turned  and  said : 
"You  say  I  am  the  first,  I  think  you  lie." 
She  wailed  a  flood  of  tears.     A  hundred  eyes 
Turned  on  us  in  the  cafe  where  we  sat. 

[253] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

We  left  and  walked  the  park.     I  goaded  her, 
Pried  out  the  secret.     Why,  at  twenty-three 
She  had  become  the  mistress  of  a  man. 
It  ended  just  six  months  before  she  came 
To  see  me  in  my  suite. 

Now  here  I  was  : 

To  hold  on  to  myself  I  had  to  hold 
This  woman,  win  her  wholly,  crush  her  soul, 
Destroy  her  so  she  would  no  longer  be 
My  heart's  desire.     For  I  had  given  all. 
And  I  could  see  she  valued  it  the  less 
As  time  went  on.     My  name,  what  was  it  now  ? 
My  art,  what  was  it  now  ?     She  even  hinted 
I  could  not  act  Othello.     There  was  nothing 
I  could  do  more  to  keep  her,  hold  her  love, 
Her  admiration.     O  how  good  esteem 
Seems  to  a  man  who  forfeits  it  to  her 
Whose  body  he  can  have,  who  cannot  have 
That  sympathy  whereby  a  man  is  nerved 
To  daily  work  and  living.     What  is  Art  ? 
No  picture  would  be  painted,  poem  sung 
Save  for  the  thought  that  woman  close  at  hand, 
Or  somewhere  in  the  world  yet  to  be  found 
By  reason  of  the  picture  or  the  poem, 
Will  see  and  love  you  for  it. 

Let  me  say 
In  passing,  and  dismiss  it,  I  began 

[254] 


MONSIEUR  D TO  THE  PSYCHOANALYST 

With  little  sums  until  I  gave  her  much. 
There's  matter  of  more  moment. 

I  confess, 

In  spite  of  my  licentious  life,  the  creed 
One  sees  among  the  artists,  where  I've  lived, 
To  strong  belief  in  woman's  virtue,  yes, 
In  spite  of  lip  avowal  of  the  faith 
Of  love  called  free,  I  have  not  quite  believed  it. 
But  it  was  in  her  soul.     She  sucked  that  milk, 
A  child  upon  her  mother's  breast,  she  said  — 
It  all  came  out  at  last  from  many  talks, 
And  then,  just  then,  I  thought  I  saw  foreshadowed 
A  social  change  upon  the  things  of  sex : 
We  read  together  Ann  Veronica, 
And  Bernard  Shaw,  and  laughed  and  said,  at  last 
We  see  each  other  clearly.     We  have  found 
A  footing  for  our  life.     I  slept  at  last. 
The  dragon  vanished  from  my  dreams.     I  waked 
A  song  upon  my  lips,  left  drink  alone, 
Could  face  my  image  in  the  looking-glass, 
And  find  restored  a  noble  quality, 
A  strength  and  genius. 

But  if  love  be  free 

And  if  you  love  though  only  for  an  hour 
Why  not  the  cup  of  love  ?     Her  former  friend 
Piqued  to  an  interest  by  my  love  for  her 

[255] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

Came  back  to  see  if  he  had  overlooked 
A  beauty  he  would  have.     Well,  she  confessed 
Their  night  together.     It  was  at  the  time 
My  poor  canzones  which  sang  our  stormy  love 
Had  just  been  finished.     Every  artist  fool 
Writes  sonnets  or  canzones  once  in  his  life. 
And  so  I  had  to  add  a  verse  to  tell 
Her  faithlessness  —  or  was  it  faithlessness  ? 
Since  she  declared  she  loved  me,  did  not  love 
This  older  friend.     But  if  she  did  not  love  him 
What  was  this  act  ?     She  called  it  just  a  trial 
Of  our  love  which  had  stood  the  test,  O  God 
Such  mazes  for  my  soul ! 

Flushed  then  with  wrath 
And  drink  I  beat  her  cruelly.     She  stood 
With  scarce  a  cry  of  pain  and  let  me  strike, 
And  said  if  I  considered  it  was  just 
To  beat  her  so,  she  wished  to  bear  the  pain. 
Then  with  a  cry  I  ceased.     We  fell  asleep 
Stretched  on  the  bed  together.     When  we  woke 
She  kissed  me  her  forgiveness.     I  returned 
The  kiss,  ah  me ! 

So  now  the  story  turns. 
There  was  a  woman  critic  who  pursued 
My  work  with  hateful  words.     Before  I  knew 
The  cockatrice  I  found  it  best  to  fold 

[256] 


MONSIEUR  D TO  THE  PSYCHOANALYST 

This  critic's  column  under,  never  read. 

And  in  a  day  or  two  from  that  on  which 

I  beat  my  mistress,  what  should  I  behold  ?  — 

A  letter  from  her  —  she  had  left  the  town 

Without  my  knowing,  she  was  visiting 

This  critic  enemy  at  her  summer  home. 

And  in  this  mail  I  found  my  poor  canzones 

Returned  to  me,  and  in  the  letter  this : 

"My  friend  says  for  some  reason  you  would  try 

To  compromise  me  by  this  wretched  verse, 

So  I  return  it  to  you,  go  and  burn. 

I  shall  not  see  you  more  —  so  she  advises, 

And  so  I  think.     I  wish  you  well  no  less. 

You  are  a  little  old  to  rise  to  fame, 

Or  excellence  in  acting,  yet  go  on. 

Perhaps  there  is  not  aught  beside  to  do, 

And  it  will  occupy  your  mind,  good-bye." 

So  shortly  everywhere  I  seemed  to  sense 
The  feeling  that  they  deemed  me  foul  and  base. 
While  we  were  friends  I  made  her  known  to  artists, 
And  writers  in  the  city.     With  this  start 
She  had  gone  on  and  multiplied  her  friends 
Among  this  folk.     I  saw  it  all  at  once 
As  one  sees  dawn  from  darkness.     Then 
The  social  standard  melted,  gave  away 
To  all  that  had  been  written  for  some  years. 
Free  love  had  won  at  last.     And  we  who  kept 
•  [ 257 1 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

Our  love  in  hiding,  she  who  lied  to  keep 
Her  name  as  one  who  lived  a  maiden's  life, 
And  I  who  doubted,  hated  her  because 
She  was  not  freshly  mine,  we,  she  and  I, 
Stepped  to  a  world  all  new,  she  to  enjoy 
And  I  to  perish.     I  was  weak  from  loss 
Of  blood  from  wounds  she  gave  me,  spent  for  love 
Poured  for  her  sorrow,  for  she  grieved  and  wept 
That  I  was  not  her  early  love,  her  love 
At  love's  beginning.     I  went  here  and  there 
To  build  her  life  up,  make  it  rich,  repair 
The  injuries  of  her  youth,  retrieve  the  days 
Which  had  brought  loneliness.     Forbear  with  me  — 
I  thought  I  could  tell  all  in  just  a  word  — 
Yes,  this  is  it  —  She  learned  what  was  my  strength 
And  took  it  for  her  own,  found  out  my  faults 
And  struck  me  there.     She  gave  me  confidence 
And  trust,  I  fancied.     On  analysis 
She  had  concealed  herself,  there  had  not  been 
Clear  understanding  with  us.     So  she  took 
My  friends,  and  friends  are  never  wholly  friends, 
And  made  them  hers,  through  these  made  other  friends, 
Explored  my  havens,  my  alliances, 
My  secret  powers  of  prestige  in  the  world. 
And  I  awoke  to  find  the  world  my  foe ! 
And  every  desk  of  every  editor 
Silent  for  knowledge  of  me,  breaking  silence 
In  just  a  word  of  hate.     You  see  she  loosed 

[»S8] 


MONSIEUR  D TO  THE   PSYCHOANALYST 

This  story  like  a  mist  which  creeps  through  cracks 

That  I  had  compromised  her.     Then  behold 

I  who  had  helped  to  bring  this  era  in 

Of  sex  equality,  yes,  in  spite  of  all, 

My  ingrained  feelings  I  have  spoken  of, 

Found  myself  robbed  of  her  by  just  the  creed 

I  had  upheld,  and  saw  her  live  with  him 

Who  was  her  friend,  before  I  knew  her,  yes, 

And  justified  by  those  whom  she  had  feared, 

Because  they  hated  me,  and  pitied  him 

Bound  to  a  woman  in  a  loveless  life 

Who  would  not  free  him,  let  him  marry  her. 

Then  the  last  atom  of  my  strength  I  summoned 
To  play  Othello.     It  was  death  or  life ! 
Soul  triumph  or  soul  ruin.     But  you  see 
The  cockatrice  had  sent  the  word  around 
And  sharpened  every  critic  eye.     I  faced 
An  audience  of  one  mind,  could  sense  it  all 
Where  hatred,  mild  amusement  were  well  mixed 
To  poison,  paralyze  creative  power, 
And  even  break  my  memory.     But  I  said 
Show  now  your  genius,  drink  the  hatred  in 
Till  all  your  spirit  sparkles  as  a  star 
When  the  north  wind  of  winter  blows  at  night. 
Nothing  opposes  but  a  woman's  hate. 
Rise  on  its  wreckage.     So  I  spurred  myself. 
And  even  when  I  saw  her  critic  friend 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

Limned  from  the  mass  of  faces,  lost  my  clue 
And  waited  for  the  prompter,  then  my  rage 
Upheld  me  —  yes,  but  wait  —  the  rest  is  brief. 

I  had  not  acted  through  the  strangle  scene 

When  I  heard  calls  and  bells,  the  curtain  fell, 

My  understudy  led  me  from  the  stage. 

Out  in  the  night  we  went  —  I  knew  not  where  — 

It  was  a  night  of  drink,  and  I  awoke 

To  strange  surroundings  in  a  scented  room, 

A  woman  with  light  hair  lay  by  my  side 

"How  did  I  get  here"  —  then  the  woman  laughed 

She  was  a  Fury,  for  the  Furies  had  me. 

Out  of  the  house  I  ran,  from  place  to  place, 

All  day  went  wandering  in  the  city,  thus 

My  wanderings  of  ten  years  began,  they  seem 

Ten  centuries.     What  do  you  think  of  this  ? 

I'm  fifty-seven,  with  a  bad  complex, 

Can  you  unravel  it  and  make  me  well  ? 


[260] 


THE   LAST  CONFESSION 

Dear,  if  you  knew  how  my  poor  heart 
Aches  for  your  heart  by  day  and  night  — 
Forever  lost  to  life's  delight, 
As  seasons  pass  and  years  depart, 
You  would  not  let  the  invisible  flame 
Of  hatred  sear  and  scar  your  soul, 
Where  once  in  living  light  my  name 
Was  lettered  like  an  aureole ! 

You,  who  lost  faith  in  me,  will  not 
Believe  this  last  confession,  made 
To  lift  your  spirit  from  the  shade 
Wherein  it  walks  and  views  the  spot 
Of  my  offense.     But  when  I  saw 
That  our  love's  life  must  have  an  end, 
I  looked  back  o'er  our  path  with  awe 
And  traced  it  toward  us  to  the  sign 
Where  our  ways  severed,  yours  and  mine. 
There  stood  Remorse's  dreaded  shape  1 
Your  Disbelief !     Your  Self-Contempt ! 
I  saw  our  love  was  not  exempt 
From  ruin  and  could  not  escape. 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

We  could  not  separate  and  smile, 
And  keep  a  faithful  thought  the  while 
Of  understanding  (like  a  spring 
Hidden,  refreshing,  murmuring) 
As  friend  sometimes  takes  leave  of  friend. 
Then  what  was  left  ?     It  was  this  thought 
That  at  the  last  came  forth  to  slay 
Your  love,  without  a  warning  brought 
Ere  my  lips  tightened  to  betray ! 

For  as  our  love  found  depths  too  deep ; 
As  absence  almost  deadened  sense ; 
As  often  I  awoke  from  sleep 
And  looked  for  hours  at  you,  all  tense, 
Lest  you  awake  and  see  my  eyes, 
Where  the  one  thought  of  purest  love 
Shone  like  a  fixed  star's  paradise, 
I  learned  to  know  that  Self  above  — 
Making  the  heart's  hierarchy  pure  — 
Stands  the  archangel  Truth,  preferred  — 
Throned  over  Love  which  can  endure 
Only  where  Truth  has  stood,  unstirred. 
Watchful  and  with  his  torch  of  stars 
Held  o'er  Love's  face,  although  it  shows 
The  forehead's  pain,  the  bosom's  scars, 
The  cheeks  bleached  out  from  secret  tears 
In  memory  of  impalpable  blows, 
Shed  in  the  night's  long  solitude. 
[262! 


THE  LAST  CONFESSION 

You  see  I  could  not  give  you  truth ! 
There  was  the  Shadow  in  my  life 
Cast  by  the  fierce  Sun  of  my  youth. 
And  as  our  day  fell  to  the  west 
The  Shadow  lengthened  and  the  strife 
'Twixt  Love  and  Truth  within  my  breast 
Waxed  fiercer.     Heaven's  deathless  blue 
Leaned  on  my  hungering  soul  and  pained 
Its  wings,  as  if  a  joy  were  lost, 
Or  never  had  been  quite  attained, 
Or  captured  at  too  great  a  cost. 
I  could  not  give  you  truth  all  true. 
My  love  for  you  and  then  the  thirst 
For  all  your  love,  made  me  accursed 
Of  fear  that  if  you  knew  me  first, 
Just  as  I  am,  your  heart  would  cease 
To  cherish  mine.     And  then  much  more 
Was  this  fear  venom  to  my  peace 
When  all  the  world  spread  out  before 
Our  astonished  eyes,  as  our  own  world, 
And  we  its  children,  each  for  each. 

This  was  the  sleepless  worm  which  curled 
In  my  heart's  petals,  at  the  root 
Where  my  heart's  sweetness  had  its  source. 
You  never  saw  the  worm !     My  speech 
Poised  like  a  bee  who  knows  the  loot 
Of  honey's  gone,  and  turns  his  course. 

[263] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

I  kept  the  petals  closed,  and  you 

Breathed  at  their  tips,  but  would  have  known 

All  of  their  fragrance,  or  of  blight. 

That's  love  —  to  have  no  place  where  light 

And  understanding  have  not  shone. 

Your  face  reproached  me  —  I  who  knew 

No  sweet  or  bitter  essences 

Can  be  withheld  from  Love  that  keeps 

An  onward  flight,  which  ever  sees, 

Or  would  see,  all  in  the  heart's  deeps. 

Then  Life  came,  and  with  lifted  sword 

Laid  on  our  souls  his  dread  command ; 

"Say  your  farewells,  part  hand  from  hand, 

You  the  adorer,  and  adored. 

Duty  is  seeking  you  !     And  Grief 

Would  have  her  child  return  and  see 

The  changeless  halls  of  Misery, 

And  the  bare  board  and  darkened  hearth." 

I  reeled  with  anguish  as  the  earth 

Sank  from  my  feet.     For  oh  the  end 

Seemed  far  as  death  !     And  when  it  came 

It  was  my  hope,  my  soul's  desire 

To  part  as  friend  may  part  from  friend, 

And  that  you'd  keep  alive  my  name 

Bright  as  an  altar's  quenchless  fire. 

It  could  not  be !     How  could  it  be  ? 

I  was  not  truth  !     I  was  not  true  — 

[264] 


THE   LAST  CONFESSION 

I  kept  my  soul's  real  self  from  you. 

Then  I  bethought  me:   "Since  his  earth 

Is  Autumn-stricken  with  a  doubt 

That  I  am  worth  not  his  love's  worth, 

Were  it  no  better  he  should  know 

Disloyalty  made  definite 

By  a  suspected  past  re-knit, 

And  see  our  love  a  play  played  out, 

Than  to  live  through  the  soft  decline 

Of  our  bright  day  to  solemn  eve  — 

A  sunset  of  remembrance  —  where 

He  walks  devoured  by  love  and  hate  — 

Love  for  the  love  I  strove  to  give, 

Hate  for  a  thought  intuitive : 

Some  newer  love  her  heart  hath  won 

Or  some  first  love  hath  won  her  back. 

No,  to  my  faith,  he  says,  "I'll  cleave, 

Believing  that  I  can't  believe." 

"Slow  death  to  love  !     Exquisite  rack  !" 

Ah  me  !  I  had  not  made  this  fate  — 

The  warp  was  stretched,  the  woof  was  spun, 

The  roof-tree  laid  long  years  before 

You  entered  at  the  unbolted  door. 

"Then  what  is  best  ?     What  can  be  done  ? 

To  give  him  back  his  pride  and  strength, 

And  even  his  peace  of  mind  at  length  ? 

Better  a  quick  blow !     Better  blood  ! 

To  brace  the  soul  and  poise  the  brain 

[265] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

And  make  him  what  he  was  again." 
Just  then  the  Shadow  near  me  stood 
Who  stepped  aside  for  you.     He  took 
With  unabated  comradeship 
My  hand  in  his.     That  closed  our  book. 
I  woke  to  hear  the  water  drip 
Blown  out  of  heavens  low  and  dim. 
He  brushed  my  tears  off  with  his  hand  — 
Nor  clouds  nor  memory  trouble  him. 
And  my  one  thought  of  you  was  this : 
I've  cured  you  with  this  sacrifice  — 
The  hate  has  come  to  you  I  planned. 
The  hate  that  may  take  form  in  words, 
For  scorn  like  this :    "I  found  a  seam 
"Right  at  the  contact  of  our  love. 
"No  recreative  fire  can  warm 
"And  fuse  fine  gold  with  lifeless  dross, 
"Or  worthy  metal  make  thereof." 
This  killed  your  love  and  wrecked  your  dream ! 
This  is  my  soul's  confession.     Wait, 
A  trickster  in  a  hooded  form 
Stands  by  as  we  begin  to  pull 
The  weaving  beam,  and  throws  between 
The  warp  and  woof  a  ball  of  wool. 
It  catches  and  is  woven  in 
The  colors,  spoils  the  conscious  blend, 
Changes  the  pattern  to  the  end. 
Whatever  it  be  I  call  it  fate. 
[266! 


THE  LAST  CONFESSION 

In  misery  or  in  happiness 

We  must  live  on  awhile  no  less. 

Shall  we  be  master  weavers,  climb, 

Or  leave  the  loom,  or  waste  the  time  ? 

Or  guide  the  shuttle  till  the  threads 

Weave  clear  or  turn  to  worthless  shreds  ? 


267] 


IN  THE  LOGGIA 

There  were  seven  nights  of  the  moon 

This  August,  beloved. 

There  were  nights  before  the  seven 

When  we  scarcely  saw  the  moon, 

Or  perhaps  as  we  canoed,  ere  the  sun  sank, 

We  saw  her  as  a  transparent  tissue  of  white 

Against  a  sky  as  white. 

But  when  we  first  saw  the  moon 

She  had  risen  before  the  sun  had  sunk. 

Then  the  next  night  she  was  brighter 

With  the  evening  planet  above  her, 

Despite  the  tongues  of  fire  in  the  west 

Where  the  sun  had  set  on  fire 

Great  coils  of  cloud  ! 

And  then  there  were  those  nights  between 

Her  growth  and  her  o'erflowing  fullness 

When  hand  in  hand  we  walked  in  your  garden 

Amid  the  Chinese  balloons  and  coreopsis, 

Hibiscus,  marigold,  hydrangeas, 

Under  the  rose  arches, 

And  by  the  hedge  of  California  privet, 

And  looked  at  the  lake, 


IN  THE  LOGGIA 

And  the  moon  in  the  sky 
And  the  moon  on  the  lake. 

And  do  you  remember  what  we  saw 

As  we  stared  at  the  wake  of  the  moon 

On  the  lake  ? 

The  ripples  made  blacknesses, 

And  the  moon  made  silver  splendors, 

And  as  we  stared  we  saw 

In  the  shadows  of  waves 

Running  into  the  light  of  the  moon  on  the  water 

Youths  and  maids  and  children 

Coming  from  darkness  into  the  light  in  a  dance, 

Joining  hands,  falling  into  embraces, 

Hurrying  to  evanishment  at  the  path  of  light 

Where  the  moon  had  paved  the  water. 

I  shall  never  see  the  moon  on  the  water 

Without  seeing  these  youths  and  maids  and  children, 

And  without  thinking  of  that  night 

Of  the  full  moon  ! 

This  was  the  night 

We  saw  the  moon  rise,  from  the  very  first, 

Across  the  lake  o'ertopping  the  forest. 

A  spire  of  pine  stood  up 

Against  a  sky  made  pale  as  of  the  northern  lights. 

But  in  a  moment  a  bit  of  fire  lit  the  spire  of  the  pine 

As  it  were  a  candle  lighted. 

[269] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

And  she  rose  so  fast  that  I  took  my  watch 

To  time  the  rising  of  the  moon 

Free  and  clear  of  the  spire. 

And  she  rose  so  fast  that  as  we  gazed 

She  cleared  the  spire, 

And  soared  with  such  silent  glory  above  the  forest, 

And  sailed  to  the  southwest  of  the  spire. 

And  at  that  moment  the  whippoorwills 

Began  to  sing  in  the  woodlands  near  — 

We  had  not  heard  them  before  in  all  this  summer. 

And  we  stood  in  the  loggia 

In  the  silence  of  our  own  thoughts, 

In  the  silence  of  the  full  moon ! 

And  it  was  then  that  the  pressure  of  your  hand 

Gave  me  a  meaning  of  sorrow. 

It  was  then  that  the  pressure  of  your  hand 

Spoke,  as  flame  which  turns  in  the  wind, 

Of  a  change  in  your  heart. 

But  if  not  a  change,  of  another's  heart 

Toward  whom  you  turned. 

And  I  sit  in  the  loggia  to-night 

Waiting  for  the  moon  to  rise, 

She  will  not  rise  till  midnight, 

And  then  she  will  rise,  a  poor  half  wreck  of  herself. 

No  whippoorwill  has  sung  to-night, 

And  none  will  sing. 

[270] 


IN  THE  LOGGIA 

And  if  there  are  youths  and  maids  and  children 

Hurrying  into  the  dance  on  the  water, 

Embracing  and  fading  in  light, 

I  shall  not  see. 

No,  in  this  darkness  where  I  breathe 

The  scent  of  the  sweet  alyssum 

Which  you  planted  and  tended 

I  shall  wait  for  midnight, 

And  the  rise  of  our  ruined  moon. 

In  the  darkness  of  the  loggia 

Under  a  sky  that  hopes  for  no  moon  to-night, 

Save  the  wasted  moon  of  midnight, 

I  am  filled  with  a  deep  happiness 

And  a  thankfulness  to  the  Power 

Behind  the  sky : 

I  am  filled  with  a  joy  as  wide  and  deep  as  nature 

That  my  love  for  you 

Can  live  without  your  love  for  me, 

And  asks  nothing  of  you, 

And  nothing  for  you 

Save  that  you  find  what  you  seek ! 


271 


BE  WITH  ME  THROUGH  THE  SPRING 

The  snow  has  passed,  the  crocus  blooms, 
A  swelling  tide  of  life  returns ; 
Green  lights  invade  the  forest  glooms, 
All  nature  wakes  and  yearns. 
The  breeze  lifts  and  the  ships  take  wing 
To  havens  which  we  long  have  known ; 
And  yet  —  and  yet  I  dread  the  spring, 
For  fear  you  may  be  gone. 

Life  gives  us  sweet  delights  and  then 
Gathers  them  back  and  buries  them  deep. 
Oh,  wanton  hearts,  that  kill  them  when 
They  do  not  tire  or  sleep. 
The  breeze  lifts  and  the  ships  take  wing  — 
Be  with  me  through  the  spring. 


[272] 


DESOLATE  SCYTHIA 

X0oi/6s  fj.ev  es  rrjXovpbv  rjKOfjiev  TreSov.  —  AES. 

When  there  are  no  distances  in  music, 

No  far  off  things  suggested  of  faery  forests  or  celestial 

heights ; 
When  nothing  undiscovered  stands  back  of  the  written 

page, 

And  the  landscape  contains  nothing  hidden, 
And  no  alluring  spirits  of  further  places  ; 
When  no  more  in  eyes  shines  the  light  of  mystery, 
And  the  thrill  of  discovered  kinships 
Has  fallen  into  the  familiar  recognition 
That  takes  all  men  and  women 
As  daily  associates  of  an  accustomed  world, 
Then  you  have  come  to  the  uttermost  plain  of  earth 
Where  lie  the  rocks  of  desolate  Scythia. 


[»73 


THE  SEARCH 

When  the  hill  grows  green  at  midway  time, 
And  bronze  buds  toss  in  the  lane 
It  is  sweet  to  follow  the  river  swallow 
Where  the  tiles  are  red  from  rain. 

When  the  slanting  wind  shakes  apple  blossoms, 
And  the  willow  trees  are  bowed 
The  balcony  banners  flutter  up 
Where  sails  the  hilltop  cloud. 

The  balcony  banners  are  ever  the  same 
Wherever  the  heart  may  stray ; 
One  sports  the  tiger  and  one  the  dragon 
Whether  you  weep  or  play. 

Where  Little  Boy  Blue  and  the  Knave  of  Hearts 
And  the  Goose  Girl  dance  on  the  green ; 
Where  Knights  in  red  and  gold  ride  forth 
Guarding  the  King  and  Queen ; 

Where  the  glint  of  swords  is  the  only  light 

On  a  passing  storm  of  men  ; 

Or  where  the  Furies  rocking  wait 

For  the  world  to  die  again ; 

[274] 


THE   SEARCH 

Where  horsemen  ride  by  the  winding  river 
Galloping  in  the  quest : 
One  wears  black  and  one  wears  yellow, 
And  one  in  red  is  dressed. 

One  fares  in  the  flaunt  of  a  scholar's  cloak, 
And  a  velvet  hat  and  plume ; 
Two  ride  with  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground, 
And  one  with  a  face  of  gloom. 

One  laughs  at  the  others  and  laughs  at  himself, 
Two  think  of  themselves  alone ; 
One  sees  a  goal  for  his  thirsting  soul, 
And  life  as  a  stepping  stone. 

They  pass  through  a  village  where 
Some  boys  are  flying  kites. 
The  people  come  with  food  and  wine 
To  entertain  the  Knights. 

And  one  takes  bread  and  one  takes  cake, 
Three  drink  a  little  wine. 
And  two  drink  for  their  heart's  delight, 
And  one  for  an  anodyne. 

And  the  Knight  in  red  slips  off  to  a  tavern 
And  drinks  him  deep  and  strong, 
And  then  he  hurries  to  catch  his  fellows 
And  hails  them  with  a  song. 

[275] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

They  come  to  a  village  that  lay 
Within  a  King's  domains  : 
The  Knight  in  yellow  takes  his  sword 
And  strikes  away  the  chains. 

They  come  to  a  place  of  festival 
Through  which  there  passed  a  hearse : 
The  Knight  in  black  reins  in  his  steed 
To  look  thereon  and  curse. 

They  come  to  a  hall  of  curious  books 
Under  a  mountain  peak : 
The  Knight  in  the  scholar's  cloak  goes  in 
And  talks  with  them  in  Greek. 

And  all  the  way  by  the  winding  river 
By  heaven's  breeze  unfurled 
The  tiger  banner  and  dragon  banner 
Flutter  around  the  world. 

As  night  drew  down  they  come  to  a  palace 
Of  laughter,  lights  and  din. 
Says  the  Knight  in  red,  "I  tarry  here, 
For  I  hear  the  violin." 

"Nay,"  says  the  Knight  in  yellow  dressed ; 
"Nay,"  says  the  Knight  in  black; 
"Nay,"  says  the  scholar,  "I  sleep  in  the  open 
To  study  the  Zodiac." 

[276] 


THE  SEARCH 

Out  comes  to  them  an  equerry 
And  sees  their  piteous  dole : 
"Come  in,"  says  the  ruddy  equerry, 
"And  dine  with  Old  King  Cole." 

He  seized  their  horses  ere  they  could  turn 
And  led  them  where  candles  shone, 
And  there  with  a  crown  tipped  on  his  head 
Sat  the  monarch  on  his  throne. 

"What  is  your  name,  all  yellow  dight, 
And  where  does  your  sovereign  reign  ?" 
The  sorrowful  Knight  then  answered  the  King 
"I'm  traveling  back  to  Spain." 

"What  is  your  name,  all  dressed  in  black, 
And  whither  do  you  roam  ?" 
"I  was  a  mad  prince  they  sent  to  England 
And  now  I'm  going  home." 

"What  is  your  name,  in  a  scholar's  cloak, 
And  what  is  your  heart's  joy  ?" 
"I  search  through  Europe  night  and  day 
For  a  spouse  for  Helen  of  Troy." 

"They're  as  mad  as  hatters,"  said  King  Cole 
As  he  straightened  his  crown  on  his  head. 
"Go  call  in  the  fiddlers,  bring  my  bowl, 
Fetch  me  my  pipe,"  he  said. 

[277] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

"But  hold,"  said  Cole,  "who  are  you,  fellow, 
"Now  answer  me  fair  and  well?" 
"I  was  born  in  France,"  said  the  Knight  in  red, 
"And  my  name's  Pantagruel." 

"That's  a  good  name,"  laughed  old  King  Cole. 

"But  whither  are  you  bound  ?" 

"I  search  for  the  Holy  Bottle,  King, 

"And  I  pray  it  may  be  found." 

"That's  a  true  answer,"  said  Old  King  Cole, 
"And  here  you  shall  abide; 
"  Come  up  to  my  throne  and  reign  forever, 
"And  sit  you  by  my  side." 

"Away  with  the  rest,"  said  Old  King  Cole, 
"And  fetch  my  bowl,"  said  he. 
"Here  is  Pantagruel  found  at  last, 
"To  keep  me  company." 

From  under  the  throne  he  drew  the  bottle 
And  poured  wine  into  the  bowl ; 
Pantagruel  stepped  to  the  dais 
And  drank  with  Old  King  Cole. 

"Give  yellow  and  black  and  scholar's  cloak 
A  bed  in  the  royal  room." 
But  Old  King  Cole  and  Pantagruel 
Drank  till  the  morning's  bloom. 

[278] 


THE  SEARCH 

They  laughed  and  drank  till  the  dawn  was  red, 
While  the  sleepers  prayed  and  wept. 
They  sang  to  the  violins  till  day, 
While  black  and  yellow  slept. 

But  Old  King  Cole,  the  merry  old  soul, 
Was  a  curious  soul  as  well : 
"Who  are  these  fellows,"  queried  he 
Of  his  friend  Pantagruel. 

"Well,  never  ask  me,"  said  Pantagruel, 

"I  met  them  down  by  the  river; 

"  But  whether  they  came  from  the  Land  of  Lanterns 

"They're  traveling  on  forever." 

They  went  to  the  room  with  a  candle  light 
And  looked  in  the  face  of  the  three  — 
"They're  a  sorry  lot,"  said  Old  King  Cole; 
"They're  a  sorry  lot,"  said  he. 

They  held  the  candle  to  gray  beard's  face, 
And  gray  beard  moaned  in  his  rest. 
And  pricked  in  color  of  India  ink 
Was  a  windmill  on  his  breast. 

The  other  muttered  "Life  is  a  shadow," 
And  his  face  was  young  and  pale : 
And  pricked  on  his  arm  was  a  green  serpent 
Devouring  its  own  tail. 

[279] 


THE  GREAT  VALLEY 

The  other  sighed  :   "I  still  must  struggle 
And  strive  until  I  die." 
And  over  his  heart  was  pricked  the  shape 
Of  a  winged  butterfly. 

"What  do  I  see,"  said  Old  King  Cole, 

"Has  the  wine  gone  into  my  brain  ? 

"Who's  Helen  of  Troy  ?     Who'd  leave  England  ? 

"And  who'd  return  to  Spain?" 

Pantagruel  and  Old  King  Cole 

Slip  down  the  stairs  in  stealth, 

They  fill  the  bowl  from  the  Holy  Bottle 

And  drink  each  other's  health. 

They  stand  at  the  window  to  watch  the  sun 
And  the  mists  of  morning  clear  : 
Three  knights  on  horses  climb  the  hill, 
And  silently  disappear. 

And  yellow  and  black  and  scholar's  cloak 
Into  the  light  have  gone ; 
And  the  tiger  banner  and  dragon  banner 
Flutter  against  the  dawn. 

There's  the  dragon  banner,"  says  Old  King  Cole, 
"And  the  tiger  banner,"  he  sighs. 
Pantagruel  breaks  into  a  laugh, 
As  the  monarch  dries  his  eyes. 
[280] 


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HE   following  pages  contain  advertisements  of 
books  by  the  same  author  or  on  kindred  subjects. 


NEW   MACMILLAN   POETRY 


Spoon  River  Anthology 


BY   EDGAR  LEE   MASTERS 

New  edition  with  new  poems. 
With  illustrations  and  decorations  by  OLIVER  HERFORD 

$2.OO 

"  The  first  successful  novel  in  verse  we  have  had  in  American  litera 
ture  ...  it  more  vividly  paints  a  community  than  any  other 
work  in  prose  or  verse  in  American  literature  .  .  .  it  at  once 
takes  its  place  among  those  masterpieces  which  are  not  for  a  time  or  a 
locality."  —  Boston  Transcript. 

"  Once  possessing  the  book,  one  is  unwilling  to  part  with  it.  It  is 
too  notable  a  piece  of  American  literature  to  omit  from  one's  library." 

—  Chicago  Tribune. 

"An  interesting  and  notable  work."  —  New  York  Post. 

"A  wonderfully  vivid  series  of  transcripts  from  real  life." —  Current 
Opinion. 

"A  big  book  and  deserves  all  the  success  it  is  having."  —  Los 
Angeles  Graphic. 

"  One  of  the  most  remarkable  of  recent  publications  from  the  point 
of  view  of  originality  .  .  .  the  work  is  striking."  —  Springfield 
Republican. 

"  It  is  a  book  which,  whether  one  likes  it  or  not,  one  must  respect." 

—  New  Republic. 

"  The  natural  child  of  Walt  Whitman  ...  the  only  poet  with 
true  Americanism  in  his  bones."  — John  Cowper  Powys  in  New  York 
Times. 


THE    MACMILLAN    COMPANY 

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NEW   MACMILLAN   POETRY 
BY  RABINDRANATH  TAGORE 

Author  of  "  Sadhana,"  "  The  King  of  the  Dark  Chamber,"  etc. 


Fruit  Gathering 


Perhaps  of  all  Tagore's  poetry  the  most  popular  volume  is 
"  Gitanjali."  It  was  on  this  work  that  he  was  awarded  the  Nobel 
Prize  in  Literature.  These  facts  lend  special  interest  to  the  an 
nouncement  of  this  book,  which  is  a  sequel  to  that  collection  of 
religious  "  Song  Offerings."  Since  the  issue  of  his  first  book,  some 
four  years  ago,  Tagore  has  rapidly  grown  in  popularity  in  this  country, 
until  now  he  must  be  counted  among  the  most  widely  read  of  modern 
poets.  Another  volume  of  the  merit,  the  originality,  the  fine  spiritual 
feeling  of  "  Gitanjali "  would  even  further  endear  him  to  his  thousands 
of  American  admirers. 


The  Hungry  Stones  and  Other  Stories 

Some  of  the  more  notable  of  Mr.  Tagore's  short  stories  are  here 
presented  in  translations  by  the  author  and  with  illustrations  by  native 
Indian  artists.  Ernest  Rhys,  in  his  biography  of  Tagore,  devotes 
much  space  to  a  consideration  of  him  as  a  short  story  writer,  advanc 
ing  the  opinion  that  this  particular  form  of  literature  is  one  of  the 
most  important  expressions  of  Tagore's  genius.  Now  for  the  first 
time  English  readers  are  given  the  opportunity  of  acquainting  them 
selves  with  the  new  Tagore  and  of  forming  their  own  estimate  of  him. 
None  of  the  material  in  this  volume  has  ever  appeared  before  in 
English. 


THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

Publishers  64-66  Fifth  Avenue  New  York 


NEW  MACMILLAN  POETRY 


The  New  Poetry.     An  Anthology 

EDITED  BY  HARRIET  MONROE  AND  ALICE 
CORBIN   HENDERSON,  Editors  of  Poetry 


Probably  few  people  are  following  as  closely  the  poetry  of  to-day 
as  are  the  editors  of  the  Poetry  Magazine  of  Chicago.  They  are 
eminently  fitted,  therefore,  to  prepare  such  a  volume  as  this,  which 
is  intended  to  represent  the  work  that  is  being  done  by  the  leading 
poets  of  the  land.  Here,  between  the  covers  of  one  book,  are 
brought  together  poems  by  a  great  many  different  writers,  all  of 
whom  may  be  said  to  be  responsible  in  a  measure  for  the  revival  of 
interest  in  poetry  in  this  country.  The  volume  is  unusual,  not  only 
in  the  number  of  names  which  it  contains,  but  in  the  splendid  in 
sight  which  it  gives  into  a  literature  which  seems  to  be  coming  once 
more  into  its  own. 


Poems  of  the  Great  War 

BY  J.   W.   CUNLIFFE 

Here  are  brought  together  under  the  editorship  of  Dr.  Cunliffe 
some  of  the  more  notable  poems  which  have  dealt  with  the  great 
war.  Among  the  writers  represented  are  Rupert  Brooke,  John 
Masefield,  Lincoln  Colcord,  William  Benet,  Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson, 
Hermann  Hagedorn,  Alfred  Noyes,  Rabindranath  Tagore,  Walter 
De  La  Mare,  Vachel  Lindsay  and  Owen  Seaman. 


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NEW   MACMILLAN   POETRY 

Californians 

BY  ROBINSON  JEFFERS 

$1.25 

California  is  now  to  have  its  part  in  the  poetry  revival.  Robinson 
Jeffers  is  a  new  poet,  a  man  whose  name  is  as  yet  unknown  but 
whose  work  is  of  such  outstanding  character  that  once  it  is  read  he 
is  sure  of  acceptance  by  those  who  have  admired  the  writings  of 
such  men  as  John  G.  Neihardt,  Edgar  Lee  Masters,  Edwin  Arlington 
Robinson,  and  Thomas  Walsh.  Virtually  all  of  the  poems  in  this 
first  collection  have  their  setting  in  California,  most  of  them  in  the 
Monterey  peninsula,  and  they  realize  the  scenery  of  the  great  State 
with  vividness  and  richness  of  detail.  The  author's  main  source  of 
inspiration  has  been  the  varying  aspects  of  nature. 


WILLIAM  BUTLER  YEATS' S  POEMS 

Responsibilities 

BY  WILLIAM   BUTLER  YEATS 

Author  of  "  The  Cutting  of  an  Agate," 
"  The  Hour  Glass  and  Other  Plays,"  etc. 

Under  the  title  of  Responsibilities  William  Butler  Yeats  brings 
together  some  of  his  recent  poems.  It  is,  after  all,  as  a  poet  that  the 
majority  of  people  like  to  think  of  Mr.  Yeats,  and  this  newest  collec 
tion,  the  first  in  a  number  of  years,  is  assured  of  a  warm  welcome. 


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